Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

Despite dozens of sorties from Apache attack helicopters and A-10 Warthog armor-killers, General Shepherd lost half of his armored vehicles and a third of his personnel before pulling back under the cover of a fuel-air bomb that obliterated The Order’s base at the cemetery.

As the afternoon changed to evening, General Rhodes’ escaping columns crossed Highway 135 after passing through the ranks of the westward-swarming K9 army.

Just before nightfall the Grenadiers finished off the last of the ground-based defenders along the rail line as well as a legion of enemy reinforcements from Newton and Sedgwick. By then only 10,000 of the fierce dogs remained, but General Rhodes’ men had made it safely out of the pocket and both relief forces retreated unmolested.

Yet still, the K9s did not stop. They continued to march, beyond the ability of Shepherd or the military to track their movement. The retreating humans only knew that all through the night the sounds of battle could be heard to the west and, come the next morning, The Order had not yet returned to their previous line at 135. Something had given them pause; slowed them; wounded them.

So ended the march of the Grenadiers.

Humanity stood alone.

Trevor, Rick Hauser, and two other sailors grabbed oars and rowed vigorously as their boat rode breakers in to shore. When the oars hit bottom, all eight men aboard jumped over the side and splashed into the cool surf, leaving JB and his well-wrapped Bunny stuffed animal alone in the RIB.

The second boat and its eight men-including the former Executive Officer of the Newport News — followed suit. A minute later the bows hit beach and Trevor helped his son hop from rubber boat to shore.

Ahead of them lay unknown land shrouded in the darkness of midnight. Only a small flashing beacon lying further up the beach provided any source of light outside of the spotlights on the rim of the boats.

The waves rolled in to shore one after another filling the air with a gentle but constant roar. A very cool breeze with salt water vapor carried across the beach belying the summer season.

“Welcome to France,” the XO muttered as his men mustered on the shoreline. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a welcoming party?”

Rick Hauser moved several paces ahead of the rest and reached the flashing beacon on the sand. He held the small device in his hand and switched it off.

Trevor said, “We’re more than a day late. Maybe they didn’t stick around.”

“Father, are we in the correct place?”

The XO had spent the last 36 hours consulting his compass and maps. His computations resulted in several course corrections during their journey from dying sub to coastline. He answered Jorgie with sureness in his voice, “You are at the beautiful beach resort of Soulac-sur-Mer. Besides, I don’t think it’s an accident that this beacon was here.”

The sailors stood in a tight group in what would have been the open space of the beach, but the complete darkness surrounding them created the illusion of isolation and cover.

That illusion shattered as a pair of bright spotlights burst upon them. Trevor raised his hand over his eyes, effectively blinded. He did hear the cock of several pistol slides among the sailors.

“Everyone stay calm,” he told the crewmen. “If they were bad guys we’d be dead by now.”

He heard the crunch of footsteps crossing the beach from the spotlights to his position. Slowly Trevor pulled away his hand and squinted in the light. He saw a line of silhouettes approach; human silhouettes. He noted weapons among the strangers: FAMAS military assault rifles.

The person in front waved a hand in the air and the spotlights changed their aim so as to illuminate the beach, but not blind.

Trevor took stock of the welcoming committee: four people standing twenty yards back beside a pair of vehicles-some kind of light military cars-parked along the remains of a sidewalk comprised of warped wooden planks. Closer, across from Trevor, stood a trio of men with their weapons pointing toward the sand.

The leader of the group stood over six feet tall, although not quite as imposing as Jon Brewer. He was lanky but his forearms and legs struck Trevor as well-toned. He had thin but not balding black hair, stubble beneath a sharp nose, and wore round glasses with a sport strap securing them to his head. He dressed in a black, zippered sweatshirt with red shoulder stripes and the brand name ‘Ducati’ embroidered where a chest pocket should be and covered his lower half in leather pants that featured a variety of zip pockets as well as strategically-placed padding.

The man in front sort of sneered at Trevor’s wet and tired group, turned to his closest comrade and sarcastically muttered, “The Normandy landings were more impressive, I would think.”

Trevor snipped, “My grandfather fought at Normandy.”

His words surprised the men. The leader’s eyes widened and his mouth nearly dropped, but he quickly regained his composure and replaced his surprise with what appeared to be his natural expression: a sneer.

He said to Trevor, “I thought you were going to bring an army.”

Trevor glanced at his son and then answered the man, “I did.”

Again, they appeared surprised.

“You were supposed to be here yesterday.”

“We almost didn’t make it at all. But that’s another story. My name is Trevor Stone. Thank you for meeting us.”

The leader took great pains to sound neither friendly nor antagonistic: “My name is Armand.”

Jorgie jumped, “Hello, Armand. It is very nice to meet you.”

“I was told I would meet Alexander,” Trevor said.

“Well you got me, instead. How lucky am I? We will shelter in what is left of the beach houses for tonight and then take a helicopter out in the morning. It is relatively safe in this area except for the bats. They will eat you if they get a chance. I do not like bats. So we had better get under cover for now. Follow us.”

Trevor addressed his crew, “Okay, you heard them.”

The sailors glanced nervously at one another.

Rick Hauser spoke for them all when he said, “Heard them? Not really. You, that guy, even your son, you were all speaking French.”

The Fennec Eurocopter’s blades blew waves across the grassy field. Trevor kept his head low and jogged away from the transport while holding JB by the hand. He, in turn, clutched his wrapped up Bunny tight, afraid the raggedy stuffed animal might blow away in the wind.

Hauser and two seamen from the Newport News followed Trevor who, in turn, followed Armand. He led them a short distance to a dirt road that ran between the grass and a gentle, forested hill. Two fuel trucks sat idle on the road. Several men-most older-wearing caps, jeans, and work shirts took hold of a hose and dragged it toward the waiting helicopter.

Trevor eyed the men as if hoping his glare would cause them to hurry; the Executive Officer and ten more of the crew waited to be ferried to where Trevor had just arrived: the small town of Murol located in the south central French administrative region of Auvergne (not that such designations meant anything anymore). Regardless, he did not appreciate his party being split.

The men struggling with the fuel hose returned Trevor’s glare with what might have been contempt. A glare from Trevor Stone in Europe did not mean nearly as much as a glare from Trevor Stone in North America. For the first time since his trip across dimensions, Trevor felt out of his element.

Dampness carried on the mid-morning air. Gray clouds combated patches of blue sky for control of the heavens.

To the southwest he spied rows of small buildings between rows of decorative trees. The precise spacing between the structures suggested either a planned community or a more commercial purpose but in the post-Armageddon world the buildings worked as an ammunition dump and motor pool.