tops here, marble floors there. At a distant table a trio of soldiers-two men and a woman-shared a midnight breakfast. At another table a solitary officer from an armored division paged through manuals in an attempt to solve a mechanical problem or another; probably seeking a way to make one kind of part that was available substitute for another kind of part that was not.
As for Jon Brewer, he reviewed readiness reports. Like much of his army, those reports suffered from sloppiness to a greater extent than typical just a few months ago. Another sign of his military machine-one he fostered since its inception in the ashes of Armageddon-descending into the chaos of final defeat.
Then again that analogy held true throughout ‘The Empire’ as things unraveled. In the eleven years since the invasion, humanity in North America had rebuilt itself into clusters of civilization surrounded by dangerous wilderness with that wilderness often times including major cities overrun by a new ecosystem of predators and prey: concrete jungles in a most literal sense.
Food production, industry, education, military training, and an entirely new economy-similar to but still distinct from the old world-grew into place. Man adapted.
Post-Armageddon Nebraska, Oklahoma, and Iowa may have only been populated by a few thousand settlers, but those settlers harvested enough crops to feed half of the nearly four million persons living and surviving in North America. Stocks would soon run low and starvation would become a serious concern as more and more refugees joined the larger enclaves in the east.
Upon Trevor’s return last year, he had broken the leadership of the burgeoning labor unions due to their involvement with the assassination attempt. This created difficulties in manufacturing goods and services. Shortages of clothing, machine parts, and electronics not only affected the civilian population but could be felt on the battlefield as evident by a dearth of hygiene and medical supplies.
Education? The schools had emptied either by order from local governors or due to a lack of students. Teenagers joined Jon Brewer’s army or the militias springing to life on a community by community basis. Kids as young as eight trained in firearms use in anticipation of a last stand.
Military training? The grooming of new officers came to a halt; every cadet became active-duty either on the front lines or in support roles or taking over garrison duties in far flung regions so as to free veteran troops for combating The Order.
Overall the economy stretched and broke. Continental dollars remained the official currency but Jon knew barter had come back in style. Indeed, growing numbers of people bartered for survival equipment then head for the hills or islands or the same bunkers they had occupied eleven years earlier when the monsters first arrived.
Then again-as he had witnessed on the Poplar Street Bridge-some sought a more permanent, personal end to the nightmare.
He tried to clear his mind. He needed to dice his concerns into bite-sized pieces so as not to choke on the whole.
While the distant click and clack of footsteps offered constant companionship to the darkness of midnight in the mall, a set of more determined clicks and clacks caught Brewer’s attention as they marched to his table.
He glanced away from the readiness reports and saw a slender black man. The guy walked with the type of military precision that spoke of his pre-Armageddon service.
Jon immediately recognized Carl Dunston, one of the original band of military survivors who had found the estate with Tom Prescott back in the first year.
Dunston saluted. Jon returned the courtesy with much less vigor; perhaps his own concession to the coming chaos.
“How was the flying out there tonight, Carl? Weather seems a bit iffy.”
“Not so bad, General. Just a little rain. Takes more than that to ground an Eagle.”
Dunston-an army pilot by trade-had been one of the first graduates from Trevor Stone’s personal ‘how to fly a captured alien shuttle’ course.
“What have you got there?” Jon referenced the envelope tucked under Dunston’s arm.
Carl removed the envelope, undid the clasp, and handed it to Jon. General Brewer pulled out a series of photographs-most aerial and many taken with infrared equipment-as well as a trio of pages stapled together.
“Intelligence summary, sir. Data comes from flybys this afternoon and earlier tonight.”
Jon skipped the photos and paged to the final paragraph of the typed report.
He read aloud, “In summary, Battle Damage Assessments indicate the enemy suffered substantial losses to core ground units including the elimination of one Leviathan. Furthermore, precision strikes by air combat group Dasher on secondary targets resulted in a thirty-five percent reduction in munitions production as well as a forty- five percent reduction in farming facilities. Intelligence estimates a minimum of three days will be required for the opposing force to affect repairs to munitions production and a minimum of seven days to re-constitute destroyed and damaged farms with subsequent crop yields anticipated no sooner than June 22 ^ nd.”
Jon allowed the hint of a smile to tug at the corner of his lips.
“At this time, enemy resources are focused on re-constituting air defenses in preparation for additional aerial incursions. Reconnaissance indicates an increase in AA batteries by a magnitude of three compared to pre-strike levels.”
“Jesus,” Dunston muttered. “We won’t be able to get near them again with that kind of flak.” The pilot thought about that for a moment and conceded, “Then again, we only got a handful of planes left, anyway.”
Jon pulled his eyes away from the report and agreed with the caveat, “True, but Voggoth doesn’t know that. Point is, with his farms beat up this bad that means every defensive Spook he builds is one less Sentry or Chariot or other ground weapon he can use to hit us on the Mississippi.”
The general continued reading and found that, like most intelligence reports these days, this one had offered the good news first as if apologizing in advance for the bad.
“Auxiliary enemy forces are now moving to the muster zone at Excelsior Springs to compensate for reduced farming capacity and lost core units. These auxiliary units are typically employed for mop-up or terror operations and hence have a lower offensive capability. However, observations suggest the entirety of such auxiliary forces west of the Mississippi are redeploying to Excelsior Springs. An estimate of numerical strength at this time would prove inaccurate but military planners should expect the enemy force to be similar to pre-Operation Baseplate numbers within 7 to 14 days.”
Jon let the report drop.
Dunston asked, “What do you think all that will end up meaning, General?”
Jon eased in his chair and relaxed with the feeling of a death row inmate earning a stay of execution albeit at the expense of a final, hopeless appeal. The day of reckoning would still come, but Operation Baseplate purchased more of the valuable commodity known as time.
“It means we bought ourselves a week. Maybe two. The Geryons have stopped moving south and the Centurians have stopped marching north. Wherever the Chaktaw are, they’ve stopped marching too, I’ll bet. They won’t hit us until Voggoth hits us.”
“But what does that mean for us?”
“More time to prepare,” although Jon knew that also meant more time for his demoralized army to disintegrate from fighting machine to rabble. “It also means we’re going to face more of the little guys like Roachbots, Mutants, and monsters and less of Voggoth’s heavy stuff when he does come knocking on the Mississippi.”
Jon knew those words sounded encouraging, as long as Dunston had not really examined the Intel photos. The volume of Wraiths, Mutants, mutated Feranites, and Roachbots leaving their raiding territories to join the main army was alarming, to say the least. Once they assembled they would become an army nearly as numerous as the units they replaced, albeit not quite as well-honed for large-scale battle. Yet as long as the Leviathans figured into the equation Jon guessed that made little difference.
“Do we have a fighting chance now, sir?”
Jon thought not about the unstoppable onslaught destined to smash into the Mississippi, but about Trevor and his son somewhere on the other side of the world and answered, “Yes.”
Like a Frisbee, the device spun through the dark corridors of the Sysco complex. On top of the spinning disk rested a box of wires and veins sporting two eye-like lights surveying the space below.
The Bishop saw what the flying drone saw via a display set in a wall of green paste and supported by metallic ribs that bent gently with the domed shape of the chamber. That display more resembled the warped mirrors of a
