Anthony DeCosmo - Schism

"Sir? What is it?"

Trevor did not answer Prescott. He opened the door and stepped outside the armored cabin. A fresh morning breeze carried the scent of salt and a hint of blowing sand. Seagulls cackled over the beach. The sun shot in behind him, casting shadows across the sand but with a strength that hinted at a hot day to come.

With a dozen soldiers scrambling to form a protective cocoon around him, Trevor cut behind the museum, walked through the garden that once hosted the finest weddings in all Long Beach, marched across a small parking lot, and stepped onto the sand.

The deserted beach stretched little more than one hundred feet wide, much thinner than the beaches further to the south and puny compared to the one in the backyard of his summer house in New Jersey.

With Tyr at his side, he walked to where land met ocean. Low waves curled and crashed then flowed in. A few inches of water brushed against Trevor’s boot, lapping over the top and tickling the bottom of his pant leg.

He felt the heavy weight the Old Man had placed on his shoulders. A weight that demanded Trevor think in the most focused of terms: victory at all costs. For the sake of generations to come and for the sake of those whose memories gave Trevor the skills and perspective to lead, he could think of nothing other than total victory. He could not afford the luxury of the moral high ground or the release of passing the baton of command to others.

Yet for a few moments he stood on that beach in the face of the Pacific Ocean and felt a sense of accomplishment. The weight still bore down, but with what had once been the continental United States now under one banner that weight shed a pound or two.

Tyr walked forward and sniffed the remains of a white cap as it rolled in. The spray tickled the dog’s nose. Tyr sneezed and retreated a step. Trevor knelt and held his hand to the water, letting the chilly flow wash over his fingers. Only his canine companion saw the tears in his eyes. — The Carmel Valley Ranch resort sat on four-hundred acres surrounded by the forested slopes of the Santa Lucia Mountains. The golf course, the pavilions, the luxury cottages…all fell dark beneath the shadow of the Chrysaor.

Captain Kristy Kaufman, her hair sculptured into a small bun and her black uniform perfectly pressed, stood on the bridge hooked into her ship as the "brain." The ship's infrared sensors displayed on one of the many monitors at her control station, illuminating the body heat of California hold outs dug deep into the buildings and brush of the resort.

General Stonewall McAllister's voice spoke into her ear from his forward position on Carmel Valley Road: "I have attempted to convince them that their position is untenable, but they refuse to listen. Therefore, Captain, I must ask that you undertake a most distasteful task."

"I understand, General. Are you sure the civilians are out? Any innocent bystanders-"

"Yes, I know. At this point, I believe we have done all we can possibly do, and I would much rather not lose any more of my division when your services are so readily available."

"I understand," she replied. "Your officers have confirmed forward positions with my tactical station, so I believe we're ready to go."

"I guess I should say 'happy hunting,' but somehow those words taste rancid right now."

Kristy knew what the General meant. She only wished the fools holding out in the Carmel Valley Ranch Resort knew. Almost in response to her thought, through her video feeds she saw the trail of a portable anti-air missile fire up from the enemy position. A moment later the war head explode, barely scratching the undercarriage of the Chrysaor.

She spoke her orders aloud for the crew to hear but her fingers did most of the work.

"Charging the Belly Boppers to twenty-percent. Energy dispersal pattern set tight."

A digitalized readout reflected the amount of power to be turned into destructive energy. The Chrysaor's energy weapons had come from the seed of alien rifles taken during the battle for Wilkes-Barre that first winter of the invasion, and utilized the same principle when it came to power: the more the weapons charged, the greater the destruction to the target.

Kristy had served as the Chrysaor's captain since its christening six months ago. Now she would see through the purpose for her ship. With Cooperative units falling apart across the country, their leadership dead, and their Witiko allies surrendering in droves to Internal Security, the battle at Carmel Valley seemed likely to be the last.

At least she hoped so. To visit this type of destruction upon any enemy-particularly a human one-required a reason. A good reason.

"Weapons charged. Burst pattern confirmed. Target area locked. Firing."

Death came in two massive blobs of incinerating energy hitting the ground and splashing out in glowing waves. The beautiful bungalows fell apart like sandcastles in a tornado and acres of forest charred and fell as if discarded matchsticks.

Having ordered the attack, General McAllister felt obligated to ride in with the first wave of infantry to secure the area, although he knew 'securing' would mean little more than sweeping up the ashes. As he approached on horseback, he realized there may not even be ashes remaining.

Small fires erupted from secondary explosions and a dirty haze hung over the target area. No walls remained intact. Ash and dirt fluttered on the wind like a warped ticker-tape parade in celebration of Lucifer. The temperature rose to nearly one-hundred degrees as the ground radiated residual heat from the energy weapon.

"Oh my," the General gasped as he surveyed the destruction.

He maneuvered his horse to the circular pavement that had once led to the main entrance, the pieces of which now rested in a smoldering pile. McAllister directed his horse at a slow trot, his sword jingled as he moved.

Such a complete victory should have elicited celebration, but these had been humans.

A breeze blew in and pushed some of the smoke off, revealing acres of green turned black and brown. Flames flickered in the distance. Puffs of smoke rose from heaps of leveled buildings. Far away, a tree line at the base of a hill marked the limit of the Chrysaor's fury, a line between destroyed woods and healthy forest.

Gunfire reverberated through the smoky air. Benny Duda galloped to the General's position. He held a radio to his ear until he stood alongside Stonewall's horse.

"Sir, we've got survivors up on the east ridge taking pot shots at us. Must've been out of the blast radius but Kaufman says she can't spot them on the infrared, too much residual heat from the boppers."

"Very well, Benjamin," Stonewall said. "Let's get over there and root them out."

At that moment, the leather reigns fell from General McAllister's hands, he slumped forward, and pin wheeled off the saddle, landing hard on the charred-black ground. A sharp pop slapped the air. Benny Duda watched, confused over what he just saw while the General's escort dismounted with carbines drawn. "Sniper! Sniper!" "Gen…General..?" Benny eased from the saddle. Stonewall rolled over on his back. Benny knelt and lifted the General's head. In the distance, more gun fire erupted. More shouts.

"Oh dear," Stonewall stared toward the sky as if trying to find the blue on the far side of the debris cloud. "Benjamin, I believe I have been shot."

A red stain pushed through the heavy fabric of the Old Mist colored uniform Garrett McAllister dressed in since the day Armageddon chased away the alcoholic in favor of a noble, courageous gentlemen.

A soldier shouted, "Medic!"

Benny Duda sobbed, "You'll…you'll be okay."

"Ben…," he licked his lips. "Benny, please do give my sword to Trevor Stone. Per-perhaps it can still serve him in some capacity. There is so much left to do."