Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

With these new additions to their group Vince moved from the shoulders of volunteers to the back of a small wagon pulled by the willing.

Late in the afternoon of June 12 ^ th the group arrived at Harrisonville, Missouri; about 30 miles northwest of Clinton but also a straight shot to their destination via Route 7. What they found there filled Nina and her followers with rage.

Bodies. Hundreds of dead bodies spread among the historic Old South buildings of downtown and across the green recreational parks. Perhaps a third of those bodies belonged to a slaughtered military convoy, an armored car brigade providing cover for the civilian refugees who comprised the rest of the dead.

But they had not merely been killed. No, Voggoth’s pets had taken the time to inflict maximum suffering, as was their modus operandi. While the majority of soldiers had met their fate with rifles in hand, the preponderance of civilians died in a much crueler fashion: skewered on tree limbs, smashed beneath slabs of building debris, splattered against walls.

Nina saw more than murder here. She saw anger. She saw retribution. Whatever motivated The Order, part came from sheer hatred. A hatred for life. This had always been obvious in the manner by which Voggoth’s followers slaughtered. But the spectacle at Harrisonville showed a measure of frustration. Perhaps even panic.

Still, amidst the carnage the group found one precious gift: a deuce-and-a-half truck with gas in the tank.

They traveled southeast on Route 7, reaching Garden City by nightfall. There they drew the attention of more stragglers, this time a stranded Intelligence Alpha Team of four operators dry on ammo and out of mission objectives. Since their transport was three days overdue they thought it best to join the party.

The group caught some sleep in Garden City and on the morning of June 13 ^ th they completed their journey to Clinton.

Nina did not know what to expect there. Indeed, she did not really know why she had sent survivors to that town. It had been no more than a speck on the map; a place close enough to friendly lines that perhaps command could send transport.

The historic downtown square of Clinton lay in ruins. The courthouse, shops, restaurants-all piles of rubble. Nina jumped from the army truck and stumbled toward the mess of a place. She saw chunks of concrete, wooden planks, pieces of furniture, and shattered glass spread across thousands of square yards all under a late-morning sun blazing from a crystal-blue sky.

I’m the one who sent them here.

She could not remember how many she encouraged to make their way to Clinton. A couple dozen, at most. But what had she sent them to? Rubble.

Nina took a hand and ran it through the soft curls of her blond hair while she shut her eyes tight.

Trevor would not have sent them to rubble. He would have-

The sound of a rock rolling over the pile of debris grabbed her attention, followed by the sounds of glass cracking and shoes shuffling.

They came from the piles of rubble, from between the broken planks and the holes where buildings once stood; from caves inside the hills of debris, from the wrecks of burned-out cars.

Dozens. Hundreds. Their clothes covered in a layer of brown dust. Their eyes glazed as if questioning the reality of the woman standing before them.

“Cap-Captain?”

The voice came from a man in soldier’s garb. A corporal. His arm still in a sling the way it had been when they first met at Fort Larned where the Dark Wolves closed The Order’s implant facility. She had entrusted him with those survivors; the first person sent to Clinton.

He stumbled from the rubble as more and more people dared step into the open to greet the arrivals.

Before Nina could answer the corporal, her head snapped around at the sound of a dog barking. Odin darted out between over turned buses and raced toward her with his curled Norwegian elkhound tail wagging furiously.

She smiled and knelt. The dog nearly bowled her over in a rare sign of affection from the otherwise stoic canine warrior.

“Captain, I hope you don’t mind,” the corporal said. “On our way here we found some others and, well, brought them along. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Nina patted Odin on the head and then stood. Her eyes moved through the crowd and she saw a curious thing. She saw them watching her with a mixture of curiosity and awe.

We’ve been waiting for you.

She envisioned the corporal on his journey telling each band of people he came across that Captain Forest told him to head to Clinton. No doubt those words served as a glimmer of hope for people who thought no hope remained. Her arrival had become the event for which these people waited.

Smiles-tentative, unsure-sprung among the crowd of men and women, young and old, black, white and other. All nearly identical in appearance thanks to the cover of filth.

“We found some food stocks along the way,” the corporal explained with a hint of pride in his voice, as if wanting to impress the Captain with his work. “We also scavenged some weapons and ammo from a destroyed convoy up in Harrisonville. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

Vince’s voice called from the truck, “Nina! Hey, what have we got here?”

Nina’s eyes passed over the gathering flock. As she met each one, their faces brightened. Some of their resolve returned. Some of their hope.

What have we got here? We’ve got an army.

They gathered over the burned out and blasted remains of the last army. Overhead a churning mass of gray and black clouds boiled; bolts of lightning flashed, thunder echoed.

They paid no attention to the blobs of bio mass and shards of metal remaining from the shattered formations of commandos, monks, and ogres. They did not come for these things; they came only because the Master called; because they knew nothing more than an instinct to fight and maim.

Gangs of Mutants mustered among the burned-white branches atop Siloam Mountain park. They rarely gathered in groups larger than a dozen. Now a thousand came together, some riding hover-bikes, others in saddles atop bipedal lizards, all brandishing blunt weapons, swords, and their trademark flintlocks.

Bomb craters littered the pavement of Isley Boulevard. Between those craters and to the flanks of the road among the ruins of a bedroom community stood row after row of the six-legged crazy robots nicknamed ‘Roachbots’. Nearly 5,000 of the insane machines waited there, including hundreds of the two-legged walking cannon Mortarbots.

A harsh wind blew over the lines of what had once been the Feranite race which now resembled thick iron bars with three legs and a metallic maw like a computerized Venus fly trap. Their arms sported Gatling guns. The hideous machines-only a year into their new existence as part of Voggoth’s minions-wobbled in the gust from two spinning whirlwinds raging back and forth across the greens of the Excelsior Springs Golf course.

Voggoth had called all his children to battle, from walking statues that had earned the nickname of ‘Stone Soldiers’ to a horde of the lumbering, red-eyed Deadhead monsters, to huge rolling balls covered in eyes and mouths, to thousands of the grayish-skinned skull-headed Ghouls that bound about and snarled like rabid apes.

They joined what remained of The Order’s core army: hundreds of metallic commandos, a thousand or so monks with swords and forearm guns, handfuls of walking missile launchers, hovering shell tanks, and half-machine/half-monster artillery pieces.

At the rear of the group loitered a quartet of gigantic Goat Walkers surveying the army spread around their cloven feet through red eyes on goat heads. But even those demonic beasts trembled in the shadow of three Leviathans.

The army of Voggoth waited as more and more numbers swelled its ranks. Monsters conjured from nightmares. Soldiers recruited from Hell. Machines powered by madness.