Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

The phalanx of 12 flying abominations made no sound as they swooped over the target at speeds approaching 300 miles per hour.

Casey said, “Christ, they’re going straight for the air strip.”

As the lead flyer reached a point above one of the main runways, its entire body bulged like a water balloon filled from a fire hose-and then the entire flying contraption popped into pieces. Flakes of the outer skin and the wings fluttered in the wind while a payload of spherical ordnance-hundreds of black balls-fell from the sky having been released from the innards of the disintegrating thing.

As they fell, the group of balls spread like shotgun shot. Each impacted and exploded in a blast of concussion. Trevor saw waves of energy ripple through the air. The windows in the lounge bent and wobbled.

Several hit the runway tearing up concrete and creating impassable holes. Another clipped the wing off a Learjet. Another hit a supply truck flipping it over and causing it to burst into flames.

More of Voggoth’s suicide bombers arrived. A Patriot missile exploded one before it reached its target, sending its body as well as its explosive cargo raining down on a tree line just outside the base.

“Where the is the goddamn CAP?”

Rick Hauser, leaning over a radio technician, answered with one ear still stuck in a headset, “They got hit by Spooks ten miles out. They’re still tangled up out there. That’s why these things got through.”

A series of large explosions came across the tarmac directly for their building. The first few ripped through a group of pallets holding freight destined for air transport. They erupted, crates went flying, and several personnel were thrown around.

The last bomb hit 50 paces away. The blast shattered all the windows in the room.

Everyone in the room dove for cover. The dogs whimpered as the blast and shattering windows overloaded their sensitive ears.

Rick Hauser grabbed his shoulder. “Sir, we need to get downstairs to better cover!”

Trevor took a knee before standing. More claps of detonating bombs echoed in through the smashed windows. The air raid siren continued to blare.

“We have to go,” Hauser repeated and before Trevor could react he felt a second hand on his other shoulder, this one belonging to Casey Fink. Between the two men they managed to ‘encourage’ Trevor into the stairwell. The building trembled again and again as they hurried for the basement shelter.

Thirty minutes later the last of The Order’s warped kamikaze bombers dropped its load over McConnell. The side door to the communications room burst open as the air raid siren faded. Trevor, Fink, Hauser and the rest emerged from the partially-scarred building to survey the damage.

Smoke rose across the air strip and from many of the perimeter buildings and hangers. Two large cargo jets lay in pieces across the runway. Several smaller aircraft-all in various states of loading and preparation-had suffered substantial damage. A pool of aviation fuel burned steadily around the remains of a busted tank.

“Ah, Christ, this is bad,” Fink shook his head.

Trevor blocked out the screams of the injured scattered around the tarmac and told Casey, “You need to get this air strip up and running again. Fast.”

As terrible as the damage appeared, the first question revolved around the runways. How badly had they been hit? Trevor spied about a dozen craters pot marking the base’s air strips.

The second question involved aircraft. Two major planes lost, several more would require significant repair. But most of the reinforced hangers appeared intact. They should be; they had been designed with the B1-B Lance Bomber in mind back in the early 80s. While the B1s had been transferred away long before the invasion, the facilities to protect those Cold War aircraft remained and had certainly protected several aircraft from this strike.

“Sir,” Fink struggled with a way to phrase what he wanted to say. “Sir, I, well I’ll get on this. But if we’re in bombing range now that means they could hit us with anything. I think, well, I think you need to get out of the hot zone.”

Trevor did not respond as something caught his eye. More specifically, a flash of white fur moving between some of the left over dead buildings a hundred yards away. There he saw a familiar sight, albeit one he had seen less and less this past year.

A white wolf.

He mumbled, “I have to-I have to go,” and started along a path that led beyond the communications center toward the stretch of abandoned and burned buildings. Soldiers tried to follow, but Trevor raised a hand and Hauser reinforced the order by shaking his head. Hauser had come to know that on occasion The Emperor left to convene with unknown forces; a truth rarely spoken aloud but one the inner circle accepted.

The Rottweilers, however, remained in escort, following their master amid the cluster of buildings that had been destroyed a decade before when the alien forces first came to Earth. He led them through a blasted door frame and followed the wolf as it moved across what had once been an ornate reception area but only broken furniture and decaying walls remained.

Trevor followed down a corridor and into a wide round conference room. Rows of auditorium chairs arranged in a half circle faced toward an open area; no doubt a one-time briefing room for mission planning or training. The only light filtered in through a bank of partially broken but not completely smashed windows on the east wall that looked out upon a thick tangle of bushes and small trees.

The wolf sat at the feet of the Old Man who wore a black vest over a plain white shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans while sitting casually upon a dilapidated table that appeared far too weak to hold any weight. As Trevor had come to know, however, the mystical old man with the wrinkled cheeks, thin messy hair, and gray stubble did not exist in his world; not as he might think. Stone guessed him to be projection of a kind, for he left no footprints nor did his footfalls make any sound.

It had been the Old Man who eleven years prior had met Richard Stone in the woods outside his home and warned of his mission to survive, fight, and sacrifice for the good of mankind. It had been the Old Man who broke Trevor’s heart with the news that he and Nina Forest could not be together and the horrifying revelation that Stone’s mission revolved around one thing: murdering all the alien creatures on his planet.

Trevor suspected his hand in many things, including helping Trevor return from a parallel Earth and, before that, cluing humanity in on the existence of the runes; strange pillars that shut off alien reinforcements and provided a means to return the invaders to their home worlds.

Indeed, it seemed to Trevor that his benefactor had gone to great lengths to overcome several obstacles-apparently unfair ones-placed in humanity’s path by Voggoth.

Still, just last year the Old Man had happily suggested that Trevor and The Empire appeared certain to win on this Earth; one of many parallel Earths where each of the major species faced an onslaught. Things changed drastically since then. The Old Man rarely visited and did little more than bark encouragement at Trevor before dismissing him.

Unlike times past, the sight of the Old Man did not encourage Trevor or fill him with questions. Instead, he found himself annoyed at having been called away for what would certainly be pointless dialogue while a score of his soldiers lay dying on the airfield.

“Hey, Trevor! About time we had a little powwow, dontchya think?”

The Old Man’s seemingly jovial tone came as a surprise. Trevor approached between the rows of neglected seats while the Rottweilers remained behind guarding the door.

“What do you want now?”