Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

Several varieties of Spider Sentries in uncountable numbers massed along Route 69; a hundred armor-plated rolling tubes adorned with glowing missiles waited in the parking lot of a strip mall; thousands of gray-skinned Ogres filled the gaps between with carts full of glowing orbs standing at the ready; a hundred locomotive-like treaded transports carrying surface-to-surface missiles sat at station on the destroyed neighborhoods to the southeast of town; mechanical Commandos in a hundred lines of one-hundred each stood perfectly still in formation on the browned grounds of East Valley Park with all manner of portable weapons on display like a May Day parade in Hell. Dozens of walking turrets formed a protective ring around the mustered army.

Above it all-standing taller than the planes flew-loomed the Leviathans.

One straddled the center of town while hundreds of eel-ish things slithered up and down its form like an infestation of maggots cleaning and repairing the vile beast. Two more stood stationary to the northwest on the grounds of Rocky Hollow Park. A fourth knelt on its skyscraper legs four miles west on the cracked and broken tarmac of Clay County airport where car-sized flying mechanical insects inspected its workings in preparation for battle.

The protective mist crept over it all from the egg-shaped dispensers located at the corners of the encampment, hiding even more of the army that aimed to crush humanity at the Mississippi. In a few hours that veil would be complete, shading all but the Leviathans from The Empire’s sights until the time came to march.

“Dash One, this is Two, Jesus Christ what do we hit first? We need to slow down here. What approach should we take? I need some direction here!”

“Billie! Don’t do shit. Stay on course-full throttle-gain some altitude-keep heading at them.”

The Spooks came. They came from brick-shaped boxes lined with ivy-like pulsating red veins. Each of the two dozen launchers sported four spouts that spat the flying beasts into the air like cannon balls. Flapping wings-more like a cloak over a ball-unfolded after ejection and an unseen force propelled the creatures at tremendous velocity.

With each launch the boxes deflated a little but before they emptied those launchers filled the skies with the horrible weapons: 50-100-300 balls of destruction rising up and screaming toward the approaching fighters.

The air waves filled with panicked chatter. The clouds grew angrier. Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed loud enough the pilots could hear the rumble through their radios and above the roar of engines. Wind shear rocked wings.

“Blow through! Blow through!” Dasher One ordered and despite every natural instinct calling for retreat, the pilots followed his lead and rammed into the cloud of destroyers.

“They’re everywhere!”

A sidewinder air-to-air missile launched from under an F-16’s wing, hitting a Spook but making only a splash in the tidal wave crushing down on them.

“Use your goddamn guns!”

Vulcan cannons met the living missiles splattering bunches into bits and carving a tunnel through the mob. But not without sacrifice. An F-16 lost a tail and spiraled fast into the army below where its fireball incinerated a column of Ogres. An F-15 took a shot directly in the canopy, exploding its front nose and sending the balance of the craft flat-spinning toward Earth.

The vanguard of fighters broke through but the Spooks did not give up the hunt. Most changed direction like a grotesque flock of birds to give chase to the fastest fighters. The rest rained down on the slower planes at the rear of the attack group.

A Prowler suffered a direct hit. The pilot instinctively ejected. Fortunately another of the Spooks blasted him to pieces before he could parachute into the devils below. Two A-10s suffered impacts, one lost a wing and plunged toward the ground, the other absorbed the hit and continued on.

Their first pass complete, the Spooks turned about and gave chase.

“All wings! All wings!” Dasher one shouted through grit teeth. “Break off to Bravo target! Hit the burners and break off!”

Billie stared out his cockpit window. Ahead he saw the rolling black clouds give way to clear sky. Behind, Spooks giving chase. Below, undefended legions of Voggoth’s army. And on his wings a pair of heavy bombs waiting to drop. Perhaps barely enough to scratch the numbers assembled below, but at least some compensation for the losses already suffered.

“What are you talking about? We’ve got a clear shot!”

“Billie! Shut the hell up and follow your orders!”

For a second-a long time in a jet fighter moving hundreds of miles per hour-Billie considered releasing his bomb load. His eyes saw the Leviathans standing at Rocky Hollow Park and he thought about raising his nose and letting momentum and gravity send thousands of pounds of explosives into one of their sick bellies.

But his loyalty overcame his frustration. He banked southwest. The twin towers of monsters disappeared from his line of sight.

“All wings, full throttle and hit the deck. I repeat, full throttle and hit the deck. Make time, people. Make time!”

The attacking planes dropped altitude and gained speed. The swarm of angry spooks gave chase, overtaking and downing an F-117 as the human fighters flew over top the kneeling Leviathan at Clay County airport.

“Faster-faster…” Billie heard Dasher One mumble over the radio as if his words might will more speed from the engines.

Blue sky replaced churning clouds. Sunbeams of an early June day replaced flashes of lightning. But the death struggle continued. The Spooks gained ground as they bellowed a horrid cry as if killing provided relief from an existence of agony.

Eight miles away from Alpha target, two Spooks hit another Prowler. The broken plane crashed hard into the grounds of the Shoal Creek Golf Course north of Pleasant Valley.

At 12 miles one of the F-111 Aardvarks fell victim to the pursuit. The cockpit assembly drifted on parachutes down into a vacant housing development on the north side of Kansas City.

At 15 miles the first Spook ran out of energy. Its body grew crusty and tired; the flapping wings-perhaps more like the flaps of a kite-stiffened. It fell. At 17 miles more died and dropped one after another. The pursuit shrank from a swarm to a flock to a handful.

“Approaching bravo target,” Dasher One radioed. “Targets identified as farms along the coast of Wyandotte lake.”

“That’s it? That’s it?” Billie could no longer hide his frustration. They had lost several planes-good pilots-and passed on a chance to drop a few bombs on Voggoth’s main army. Not much, but something.

“Farms? We did all this to hit some goddamn farms? Whose dumb-ass idea was this? We had their friggin’ army under our wings. We could have done some damage.”

Dasher One first greeted Billie’s protests with a chuckle. And then an assurance.

“Relax Billie, we just kicked their ass, they just don’t know it yet…”

The black heavens above Voggoth’s army rolled and bucked like an inverted ocean tide. Licks of lightning bounced among the clouds but no rain came; only the energy of a storm that refused to break.

Something moved among the storm clouds.

Another bolt of lightning erupted through the heights. The flash illuminated three deadly beasts descending from the clouds with wingspans greater than 180 feet and bellies full of death. The thunderclap that followed sounded one part roar and one part laughter.

The monsters descended upon Voggoth’s legions to the droning roar of Pratt amp; Whitney turbofans making some 17,000 pounds of thrust. A hydraulic hum followed by a heavy clang announced the opening of bomb bay doors.

The B-52’s wore icons on their noses and came with names: “Memphis Belle IV,” “In Harm’s Way”, and “Lady Ashley”.