Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

Still, Sydney remained a human city thanks to a combination of Aussia military and civilian recruits. They eagerly accepted Trevor Stone’s invitation, but the Aboriginals from the continent’s interior chose to remain recluse.

While the riders carried the word across Europe, Asia, and the Pacific rim, Trevor personally led an expedition into the heart of the dark continent.

In the early months of the new year, his convoy of Land Rovers drove across a golden savannah under the harsh beams of an unforgiving sun. Drinking water had become a commodity as precious and nearly as scarce as gasoline. Fortunately, human settlements in Algeria and Mali as well as a Centurian outpost in Niger willingly helped re-supply the travelers.

In any case, Rick Hauser slowed the lead Rover of four to a halt on what passed for a road. A wooden fence and armed check point blocked their way. Trevor exited the vehicle and approached the guards, one of whom accepted and then hurried off with a copy of the note Trevor came to convey.

The soldiers wore patches on their green uniforms suggesting old-world affiliations with the Central Africa Republic, Cameroon, or the Democrat Republic of Congo; political entities devoured by Armageddon’s fires.

Some appeared older: veterans, no doubt, of those countries’ old world militaries. Several more appeared younger-late teens, even-new recruits for an army of new thinking.

Movement on the plains caught his eye. Trevor saw a small herd of zebra daring the heat of the afternoon to graze. They paid no attention to the shaggy brontosaurus-sized creature sporting spiked tusks that wandered by on its way toward the delicacies offered in a nearby cluster of trees.

If Trevor had his way, all such otherworldly beasts would be purged from the planet to restore the natural balance of things. But as he watched the docile giant bite into the branches of a hardy umbrella thorn acacia, he realized that the new life brought to Earth by the invasion had grown roots. And besides, if he truly believed what he had argued in the temple of Voggoth, then all the universe’s life shared common beginnings and thus would find a new, acceptable balance here on Earth.

The guard directed Trevor beyond the checkpoint to a more shaded stretch bordering a large pond. As he moved forward he saw buildings. A few were makeshift shanties built from scavenged metals and stone; a few more crude shacks of thatch and bamboo. But at the heart of the settlement stood a series of sturdy concrete structures.

Around it all ebbed the currents of life: a woman in a flowered Senegalese-style Bubu pushing a cart loaded with vegetables; a man in a silk shirt and work pants carrying a tool box en route to some repair job or another; a cluster of children kicking a soccer ball on a makeshift playground near the skeletal remains of a well-scavenged truck; two elderly men embroiled in a tabletop game on a porch; a mother humming a soothing tune to an infant.

The activity slowed and then stopped as Trevor and his party strolled along the main path. The newcomer grabbed their attention. Or perhaps the rumors of the invitation had already begun to spread.

A tall man of the darkest complexion emerged from the town hall with the note in hand and approached Trevor, eyeing him through wise eyes that had shepherded a village during years of uncertainty and peril. On his tunic he wore the stars of a general, but the way the villagers regarded him told Trevor this man was more than a warrior; he was a leader.

The general stopped in front of Trevor and studied the visitor.

Trevor raised his arm in a rigid, proper salute; a salute for a soldier who had demonstrated his valor by the evidence of success displayed in the thriving village. The gesture of respect struck the right chord and the general returned the salute with equal precision.

As their hands left their foreheads they reached out and grasped in a firm shake. The man wearing general’s stars smiled as the crowd gathered to hear the news.

Trevor leaned against a corner at the rear of the school room next to Rick Hauser and watched the last stages of the process, as did dozens of onlookers in seats, from the hall, and through windows along the wall.

The general sat at the teacher’s desk overseeing the counting of ballots. The blackboard kept score with strokes of chalk. As the last slip of paper was pulled from the wooden box, the general marked the final tally.

A middle-aged woman with braided hair gasped and raised her hands to her mouth in a vain attempt to suppress glee. The trio of losing candidates grimaced for a moment and then congratulated her with hugs and smiles.

She controlled her enthusiasm as the general approached. Then, in a rare display of affection, he let his stoic guard drop and embraced the moment as he embraced her.

Children conveyed the last of her luggage as well as jugs of water to the convoy of Rovers parked outside the town hall. The braided-hair woman’s husband slipped into the lead vehicle’s rear seat alongside Trevor Stone.

She waved to the crowd of well-wishers one last time and then joined the other passengers. The convoy drove away from the village and across the savannah.

One mid-May afternoon a young barefoot boy with a Mediterranean complexion ran as fast as his small legs could carry along the jetty stretching out on a bed of rocks from the charred remains of Palermo. He joined the gathering of curious children at the end of the pier in time to add his voice to the chorus of “Arrivederci! Arrivederci!”.

The boys and girls offered their farewells to a 300-foot luxury yacht and a salvaged corvette of the Italian navy breaking port.

The convoy that had scoured Africa for months returned north to make final preparations. They crossed from Morocco to the Iberian Peninsula on a series of helicopters.

Dozens of persons from dozens of enclaves of African survivors exited the choppers alongside Trevor in the shadow of the giant rock of Gibraltar. A face Trevor had not seen since last fall waited to greet him: Alexander.

The two spoke on the grounds of a long-abandoned Royal Navy base that recently found new purpose.

After exchanging pleasantries, Trevor dove straight into the matter, “We’re getting near the deadline.”

“Yes,” Alexander agreed as they walked toward the ocean side of the base. “I have received word that many of the others have already departed for the rendezvous.”

“What about the round table at Camelot?”

Alexander assured in a light-hearted tone that belied his usually serious personality, “I told you last year that everyone would accept the proposal. You need to learn to relax.”

Stone stopped walking, considered, and said, “You know what? In a way this part scares me more than the fighting did. There is an opportunity here, Alexander. I don’t want to blow it. But yeah, once all this is done I’ll relax.”

“Do not get your hopes up. I know human nature. If you’re looking for a storybook ending, you are likely to be disappointed. Besides, nothing ever really ends. Things simply move to a new stage.”

Trevor realized that therein lay the difference between himself and Alexander. He-Trevor-felt born for Armageddon. The three gifts-his sense of responsibility-his very genetics-all groomed for this one fight. Alexander came from a different breed. More pragmatic, perhaps. Not as hasty. Not as driven. Better suited for the long haul.

The world will belong to people like him, now.

Trevor asked, “Where is Armand? Is he coming with us?”

“No. He and Cai are getting married and taking care of southern France for the meantime.”

“Good for him. Do you think he can make the switch back to being ‘just a guy’?”

After a laugh Alexander answered, “I do not think Armand was ever ‘just a guy’. Besides, there is much work left to be done. Lots of nasty things out there that will need to be hunted down, even after the main forces have departed. Voggoth’s pets, the Witiko bases-much more blood will be shed for years to come.”