Trevor could not tell if the time was exactly right, but from what he saw no predators threatened the ark- riders.
“Father!”
“JB? What?”
Again, the child’s eyes searched the bands of energy, seeing something.
“They’re coming, Father! They’re coming!”
“Hurry, Jorgie! Hurry!”
In rapid succession Jorgie guided the Nyx’s energy across the world during the June days just prior to the full force of the invasion. Trevor fed him dates and places, but despite becoming better skilled at manipulating the power, Jorgie still could not be as precise as Trevor wished. Nonetheless, he grabbed thousands of people form the past and, with Trevor’s guidance, deposited them at times when they would awake in lands re-claimed by the expanding Empire.
Again Jorgie warned, “Something is happening-there’s another door open-to someplace different. Father-I’m getting so very tired.”
“Your mother, Jorgie. Find your mother,” Trevor had not pushed to pull Ashley from the past because he wanted his son’s skill to improve as much as possible. Of all the ark-riders, losing Ashley-and, ironically, baby Jorgie in her belly-would prove the most catastrophic. He wondered if his son-standing in the energy field-would simply vanish should Ashley find her green coffin deposited before the battle for Wilkes-Barre; before the Battle of Five Armies; before Northeastern Pennsylvania had been retaken by humanity.
His concern proved unwarranted. Ashley’s entire family and all of her neighbors disappeared from their homes, leaving behind singed clothing and empty rooms.
In the moment before the image changed, Trevor saw a silver Chevrolet Malibu with a badly-damaged passenger side screech to a stop in the half-circle driveway of the Trump’s modular home. He saw a person to whom he shared some similarity; he saw a young man named Richard Stone exit the car and bound up the stairs in search of his fiance. All this before the Old Man, before New Winnabow, before the journey to a parallel universe.
Trevor gazed at the fading image. The stranger pictured there-could that really be his past self? How he wished for a world where Richard had never become Trevor.
Then the image changed. Ashley and the others from her street rode the ark landing safely in secure territory not far from her home a little more than a year since her disappearance. For her the time past in the quickest of flashes. During that flash, his entire life-his entire person-changed.
Richard became Trevor.
“Father-I am so tired-and they are coming…”
The energy field waned. The image showed the grounds outside the temple. Voggoth’s monsters prepared for one last strike at the Europeans; one last surge to send them running.
“One more, JB. One more time and then you’re done.”
“I can’t…”
“You must! Armand and the others are dying. Send them help, Jorgie.”
The mention of Armand’s name grabbed JB’s attention. No doubt the thought of the gallant Frenchman- someone Jorgie had grown to admire-gave him one last burst of energy.
Trevor saw the scene change to a place he could not identify; an industrial town situated beneath a row of beautiful, towering mountains covered with green and surrounded by serene rolling hills. A formation of soldiers marched along a road outside of town, enjoying the sun of a gorgeous Russian summer day as well as a postcard view.
Trevor realized-Satka, Russia. This place. This very place before the infection of Voggoth came and tore it asunder.
Alexander stood at the open passenger’s door of a Sherpa military vehicle. He used a small flashlight to consult the map unfolded on the seat therein. A Royal Marine watched over the leader with his eyes aimed east at the battlefield raging just below the nearby ridge.
Explosions of red and orange-barrel flashes-streams of fire-and vehicle headlights created a shifting tapestry of light within the mass of combatants. The occasional lightning flash from the cloud-covered heavens revealed a morass of human fighters in close-quarters battle with the alien horde. A smoky haze floated above the slaughter.
Behind Alexander the crews for a pair of small artillery pieces hurriedly hitched their guns to transports. Other workers packed crates with gear and sealed them shut.
Armand’s motor bike roared to a stop near the Sherpa. The warrior-a big blood stain on one thigh and a slash cut through the leather sleeve of his outfit-knocked the stand into position with a sharp, frustrated kick. As he approached Alexander he removed his helmet.
“What did you want me for?”
Alexander answered, “Round up your cavalry. I need you to cover our retreat.”
“Retreat?” Armand’s face twisted in disgust as if Alexander had just cursed a dear relative. “Trevor and his son are still inside that temple.”
“I know. I am not happy about this. But the battle has turned against us. Too many of those things coming out of thin air. Already our northern flank has collapsed. As it stands, we may have to leave our wounded behind.”
“Alexander, I have followed you for years without question. Your pragmatism kept us alive and together during those early times. But I do not want to do this thing. If Trevor is right, then this is a battle that must be won. Sometimes it is best to take a chance, even when the odds are against you.”
Alexander shook his head not in disagreement but surprise.
“I did not know you had come to trust him so.”
Armand answered, “He has been right since the moment he came here. I cannot ignore that. And neither should you. We must stay and fight.”
“If we do not leave soon then we may not be able to disengage! Do you know what that means? We will be overrun and cut to pieces. Right now we are a wounded army, but we are still an army. With cover from your riders we can retreat. Soon we will not even have that luxury. The lines of this battle are already disintegrating. Please, Armand, I do not like to-“
“Come!” a shout interrupted Alexander’s argument. “Alexander! Armand! Come and see!”
The voice belonged to the lanky black man named Gaston. The one who had been spying in France for Russian intelligence at the time of the invasion. He stood at the edge of the dead orchard waving frantically.
Both Armand and Alexander knew Gaston not to be a man easily taken to shouting. They reacted by dropping everything and walked quickly toward Gaston. Alexander’s bodyguard joined the group and they pushed through the forest.
“What is it?” Alexander felt time-and a chance to escape-slipping away with every wasted second.
Gaston said, “It is unbelievable. A miracle.”
After the field of dead trees came a small, round valley, the valley they had inspected prior to the battle: the field full of the tanks, guns, equipment, and uniforms of the 276 ^ th Motorized Rifle Regiment.
Alexander and Armand stopped at the edge of the orchard. And gaped.
The T-72s, the mobile artillery, the BTRs and the boxes and crates of equipment and ammunition remained. However, hundreds-perhaps thousands-of green blobs the size of coffins now filled the space between the gear.
Rick Hauser and several of Gaston’s men worked among the strange blobs, digging into and peeling away layers of what resembled hardened gelatin. Dozens of strangers stood among them. Alexander squinted as if to ensure his vision worked properly. A bolt of lightning lit the scene and confirmed what he thought he saw: those strangers were naked men.
“We started pulling them out as soon as we found them,” Gaston explained. “They are alive! We focused on freeing the officers. With a little searching they should find their uniforms.” He considered then added. “I suppose any uniform will do for the time being. It is cold, no?”
“I do not understand,” Alexander said. “Who are they?”
By the tone in Armand’s voice it seemed he understood and accepted the situation: “You see, they are alive.
