Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

A trio of the blue balls slammed into one of the temporary anti-grav generators affixed to the Hercules’ bottom. A storm of energy flashed like a hundred bolts of lightning and snaked across the bottom of the vessel like electronic worms digging into the belly of the ship.

What the hell are these things?

More red spheres-more blue-making for a combination of large explosions and electromagnetic bursts, most hitting the Hercules, a few hitting specific spots on the Excalibur.

Over the buzz of his golf cart as it sped away-over the hum of the attacking spheres-Brett heard another sound that made his heart skip a beat: a groan. A metallic groan. The sound of a gantry bearing more weight than originally intended.

“Hurry-hurry-oh, my god, hurry…” Stanton did not need her encouragement; that groan provided all the urgency required.

The red balls exploded one after another and apparently well-targeted. A line delivering aviation fuel to the Excalibur ruptured. The explosion followed the fuel hose down to the ground and obliterated a tanker truck as well as a dozen personnel within twenty yards.

A hull plate ripped from the Hercules’ body. As it dropped it careened into another support tower and cut through an elevator shaft. The car inside fell.

Another support tower moaned, only this time the sound did not stop.

Brett Stanton and his assistant reached the halfway point between the dry dock and his office building when the Hercules broke free of its moorings and listed to starboard, slipping sideways and raising its port side into the starboard side of the Excalibur from underneath. The impact of such heavy mass shoved the dreadnought and sent two supporting gantries tumbling like tinker toys. The sound of iron and metal falling into rubbish heaps produced a series of clings, clangs, and crashes that could be heard for miles. More explosions followed on the ground but the worst was yet to come.

Blasts from red orbs and electromagnetic pulses from blue ones destabilized fuel cells and ordnance catches. A line of yellow flames burst from the port side of the Excalibur ejecting equipment, bulkheads, and personnel.

The remaining gantries fell as the Excalibur dipped and pounded into the Earth below; ripping up pavement in a tidal wave of concrete and dirt. The super-strong SteelPlus hull bent and warped. A quarter-mile wide gash opened along the tilted flight deck; flash fires larger than city blocks erupted one after another; bolts of electricity-like lightning strikes-erupted and coated the entire superstructure in a volatile electromagnetic bath that lit the fuse of a powder-keg combination of aviation fuel, power cells, and ordnance.

The Excalibur, the Hercules, all the buildings, vehicles, and structures on the airport grounds; Brett Stanton and his passenger; the wild woodlands around the base; and the cluster of homes in a suburb five miles from the facility’s outer fence, were all consumed by a pressure wave larger than any man-made explosion short of a nuclear detonation.

The blast swept out in all directions via a wall of concussion. A mushroom-shaped cloud of blue and orange reached thousands of meters into the sky, the tremor rattled windows as far off as Akron, Ohio.

Shepherd stood outside the tent and took off his hat as if to bath in the sunlight.

The staging area at Riverfront Park buzzed with activity: trucks, tankers, and Humvees weaved through throngs of tents, temporary camps, and portable toilets. A line of raggedy soldiers stood at a water buffalo parked near a pile of industrial rubble. A handler encouraged along a group of Grenadiers. Four men half in and half out of dirty uniforms sat at a folding table playing cards and smoking. The whistle of a steam train came from just beyond the big cisterns to the west.

He wished he could think of all the activity as an organized encampment. Instead, Shepherd saw the staging area for what it was: the chaos that comes when mixing retreating soldiers with both their supply lines and with incoming units being rushed forward to fill holes.

Pop. Pop.

The crowd silenced. Heads turned trying to find the source.

Rat-tat-tat: assault rifle fire.

Screams.

A flash of light then smoke followed by the boom of a small explosion.

General Shepherd fixed his hat in place and retreated a step toward the tent.

Suddenly the crowd between his position and the southeastern edge of camp-near the trees along the river bank-scattered like sheep running from charging wolves.

Someone shouted, “Incoming! We’ve got incoming!”

In the mid-morning light Shepherd spied balls of red sweeping at the fleeing soldiers like miniature cruise missiles shaped to resemble tiny suns. Their round bodies gave off licks of flames; maybe plasma.

He saw one impact a parked cargo van. The vehicle erupted in a powerful explosion that sent it into the air, upside down, and crashing to the pavement once again.

At this point several soldiers found their weapons and fired at the flying line of a dozen balls of red. One hit. The sphere exploded anyway throwing troops into the air like lifeless rag dolls.

The line of attackers flew toward his command tent. Shepherd saw them coming a moment too late.

He tried to dart inside but stumbled, falling forward to the pavement of what had once been a gigantic parking lot. Two of the red spheres flew directly over his head; he felt an intense heat as they passed.

Inside the tent, Simms and Duda dove for cover beneath the map table; Casey Fink and Bear Ross tried to run off.

The first of the orbs hit a storage locker at the rim of the tent. The explosion tore away the stakes and sent the tent flying off and up into the morning sky. The map table overturned; Duda and Simms tumbled over and over across the pavement.

The second impacted just beyond the tent, a pace behind General Fink and Ross. The blast sent chunks of pavement into the air along with the two men. Ross landed atop a pallet of supply crates; the sleeve of his black uniform caught fire.

Fink landed straight on the pavement, face down and motionless.

Another sphere hit an APC punching a hole in its side. Yet another dive-bombed into a crowd of men standing around a portable kitchen. Shepherd saw legs and arms tossed off as well as blobs of gore.

More explosions all around the camp. Shepherd scrambled to his feet and raced first to Woody Ross who rolled on the ground trying to douse the flames on his arm.

Shep used his hat to help snuff the fire. With a quick glance he saw Ross’ arm to be badly burned and one of his ankles twisted in an unnatural way, but nothing mortal.

He turned around and saw Cassy Simms kneeling next to Casey Fink. She rolled him over. His eyes remained open but lifeless.

“Here comes another one!”

Charles followed the sound and fired a burst from his MP5 just as one of the yellow balls flew in through a window at the front of the house. It popped from the shots and spilled sizzling acid across the hardwood. The droplets bubbled and disappeared leaving behind black holes in the floor.

“Backyard!” Ashley yelled.

Two of the yellow orbs swung into the backyard from the side of the house and raced toward the sliding glass window. The first hit, spraying its lethal cargo on the window which melted open a few square feet like ice hit with a blowtorch.

Gordon-in his wheelchair near his array of radios and computers-leveled his pistol and fired through the hole in the glass meeting the second flying ball before it entered the home. The resulting splash dissolved most of the rest of the sliding glass doors.

More machine pistol shots from the front of the house.

“I’m almost out,” Charles jogged up the hallway in search of another clip.

“Try the kitchen,” Gordon motioned toward the room across the hall from his nerve center. “I keep spare clips in the cookie jar.”