Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

“Here,” he slipped off his shoulder holster with the Mac-11 and held it to her. “Take this. Every bit counts.”

She accepted the weapon and slipped it over the shoulder opposite her own Mac-11.

“I apologize, Nina Forest,” the Bishop’s voice returned. “It is a shame that when your compatriots removed our implant you lost all those memories.”

Nina thought about the missing year of her life. She thought about what she had lost. She thought about a life with Trevor, stolen by Voggoth and his ilk.

If the Bishop had hoped to intimidate or confuse, he failed. His taunts gave birth to the seed of fury planted in Nina the day she had awoke in The Order’s facility with her memories stolen. A seed nurtured first by mystery and then by the revelations of all she had lost. Of all they had taken.

“I am sure you would be proud of how efficiently you performed for Voggoth. I cannot restore those memories, but I could share the story with you if you care.”

Vince threw his eyes toward the ceiling and remarked, “He really doesn’t know who he’s fucking with, does he?”

The energy in her body-every muscle, every nerve-seemed to vibrate. All her life Nina had felt proficient with weapons; now she felt as if her very person had become a weapon, fueled by anger and guided by lethal instinct. The battle in the maze with the Commandos served merely as an appetizer. The main course awaited.

She nodded to Vince and then walked north. After a minute she reached the end of the maze. Far across the chamber on the western wall the remaining Commando rolled along the catwalk and aimed his weapon toward Nina as she moved into the open.

Its shots went wide; distance again thwarted the creature’s accuracy.

Nina changed the M4’s rate of fire switch, raised her rifle, and fired a solitary bullet that traveled all the way across the warehouse.

The Commando’s red eye shattered. Its robotic body rolled backwards, hit off the wall, then slumped forward over the catwalk railing. The thing fell to the floor far below.

Nina paid the dead enemy no mind. She continued walking north toward the exit.

Toward the Bishop.

The St. Claire Square mall included a food court. Not much had changed between pre- and post-Armageddon in that respect. On that particular evening as a steady rain drummed against the skylights, Jon Brewer sat at a long table in that big room with a cup of coffee and a grilled chicken sandwich.

Well, at least it tastes like chicken.

Only a few lights shined in the place, creating spaces of dark and spaces of light illuminating aged counter tops here, marble floors there. At a distant table a trio of soldiers-two men and a woman-shared a midnight breakfast. At another table a solitary officer from an armored division paged through manuals in an attempt to solve a mechanical problem or another; probably seeking a way to make one kind of part that was available substitute for another kind of part that was not.

As for Jon Brewer, he reviewed readiness reports. Like much of his army, those reports suffered from sloppiness to a greater extent than typical just a few months ago. Another sign of his military machine-one he fostered since its inception in the ashes of Armageddon-descending into the chaos of final defeat.

Then again that analogy held true throughout ‘The Empire’ as things unraveled. In the eleven years since the invasion, humanity in North America had rebuilt itself into clusters of civilization surrounded by dangerous wilderness with that wilderness often times including major cities overrun by a new ecosystem of predators and prey: concrete jungles in a most literal sense.

Food production, industry, education, military training, and an entirely new economy-similar to but still distinct from the old world-grew into place. Man adapted.

Post-Armageddon Nebraska, Oklahoma, and Iowa may have only been populated by a few thousand settlers, but those settlers harvested enough crops to feed half of the nearly four million persons living and surviving in North America. Stocks would soon run low and starvation would become a serious concern as more and more refugees joined the larger enclaves in the east.

Upon Trevor’s return last year, he had broken the leadership of the burgeoning labor unions due to their involvement with the assassination attempt. This created difficulties in manufacturing goods and services. Shortages of clothing, machine parts, and electronics not only affected the civilian population but could be felt on the battlefield as evident by a dearth of hygiene and medical supplies.

Education? The schools had emptied either by order from local governors or due to a lack of students. Teenagers joined Jon Brewer’s army or the militias springing to life on a community by community basis. Kids as young as eight trained in firearms use in anticipation of a last stand.

Military training? The grooming of new officers came to a halt; every cadet became active-duty either on the front lines or in support roles or taking over garrison duties in far flung regions so as to free veteran troops for combating The Order.

Overall the economy stretched and broke. Continental dollars remained the official currency but Jon knew barter had come back in style. Indeed, growing numbers of people bartered for survival equipment then head for the hills or islands or the same bunkers they had occupied eleven years earlier when the monsters first arrived.

Then again-as he had witnessed on the Poplar Street Bridge-some sought a more permanent, personal end to the nightmare.

He tried to clear his mind. He needed to dice his concerns into bite-sized pieces so as not to choke on the whole.

While the distant click and clack of footsteps offered constant companionship to the darkness of midnight in the mall, a set of more determined clicks and clacks caught Brewer’s attention as they marched to his table.

He glanced away from the readiness reports and saw a slender black man. The guy walked with the type of military precision that spoke of his pre-Armageddon service.

Jon immediately recognized Carl Dunston, one of the original band of military survivors who had found the estate with Tom Prescott back in the first year.

Dunston saluted. Jon returned the courtesy with much less vigor; perhaps his own concession to the coming chaos.

“How was the flying out there tonight, Carl? Weather seems a bit iffy.”

“Not so bad, General. Just a little rain. Takes more than that to ground an Eagle.”

Dunston-an army pilot by trade-had been one of the first graduates from Trevor Stone’s personal ‘how to fly a captured alien shuttle’ course.

“What have you got there?” Jon referenced the envelope tucked under Dunston’s arm.

Carl removed the envelope, undid the clasp, and handed it to Jon. General Brewer pulled out a series of photographs-most aerial and many taken with infrared equipment-as well as a trio of pages stapled together.

“Intelligence summary, sir. Data comes from flybys this afternoon and earlier tonight.”

Jon skipped the photos and paged to the final paragraph of the typed report.

He read aloud, “In summary, Battle Damage Assessments indicate the enemy suffered substantial losses to core ground units including the elimination of one Leviathan. Furthermore, precision strikes by air combat group Dasher on secondary targets resulted in a thirty-five percent reduction in munitions production as well as a forty-five percent reduction in farming facilities. Intelligence estimates a minimum of three days will be required for the opposing force to affect repairs to munitions production and a minimum of seven days to re-constitute destroyed and damaged farms with subsequent crop yields anticipated no sooner than June 22 ^ nd.”