Anthony DeCosmo - Schism

Jerry Shepherd rubbed frost from the window and eyed those famous tilted slabs of sedimentary stone for a long second, allowing the impressive sight to steal his thoughts away from the reason for his side trip to Boulder.

Shep knew that, somewhere deep in his soul, lurked the heart of a cowboy. There had been a time in his life when he pictured himself retiring to the Rocky Mountains. What a way to cap off his military and law enforcement career with a couple of years of fishing, hunting, and napping in hammocks in the shadow of grand mountains.

Such dreams evaporated when the extraterrestrial armies and alien animals came pouring through the gateways.

Shep sighed and pulled the zipper on his parka another inch higher.

The foothills he admired remained capped in white frosting that reflected the sun brilliantly. For all its beauty, the snow in a place such as Boulder, Colorado, often grew into an impenetrable barrier. He wondered why any settlers would choose to re-open a city that not only sat in isolation, but had suffered so many horrors in the early days of Armageddon.

To Shepherd, much of The Empire’s push westward had felt like McArthur’s 'Island Hopping' campaign during World War II in that the military commanders carefully picked where to strike and where to leave alone.

Boulder had been one of those islands left alone during the push to the Rockies. Denver, on the other hand, had been cleared, particularly the sections east of Interstate 25, including the International Airport and the Buckley Air National Guard Base. Both of those locations became important military facilities and supply points.

The distance between Denver and Boulder could be driven in minutes…if the snow plows cleared Route 36. The snow plows had done no such thing in years. The people of Boulder could not count on contact with the outside world until spring, except for the occasional flight into the airport and sporadic mounted couriers.

Part of the decision to leave Boulder alone had come from the cursed aura surrounding the city. Survivors from across the region told stories that made even the most battle-hardened warriors cringe. Stories of monsters-not animals-but monsters.

During the first days of Armageddon, creatures from the realm of Voggoth descended upon Boulder Valley and turned it into a nightmare. Unlike the animals and predators from the other alien environments, Voggoth's beasts killed for fun, as if inflicting pain served as a goal unto itself.

Perhaps the colonists saw themselves as a cleansing agent. Shep heard that the Boulder settlers hailed from a religious sect, although he could not remember the specifics.

"General Shepherd, we’re approaching the LZ, sir."

The transport flew over the remnants of Boulder proper. Shep eyed crumpled buildings and charred homes; rusting hulks that had once been automobiles on streets that had cracked and twisted from years of frost and thaw with no street department to patch potholes.

A stream of orange smoke rose from an open area to the north of the University. The helicopter swung about and descended into a small park filled with bare, broken trees. An old basketball court served as a makeshift landing pad.

The downdraft from Blackhawk scattered the signal flare’s smoke as the craft landed. Shepherd gathered his thoughts, checked his side arm, then exited the transport escorted by two well-groomed soldiers dressed in winter jackets and clean BDUs.

Soldiers of a different creed waited for the General outside the chopper.

They wore heavy gray uniforms with red sashes, many with an added wool coat. They carried swords and carbines and heavy packs on their back. Several sat in saddles atop gorgeous stallions. They all sported rough stubble on their cheeks; a sign of life in the cavalry, life always on the move in the wilderness.

Shepherd admired the men and envied their work. To be out in the wilderness… living off the land for weeks at a time…with only their guts, guns and brotherhood to face the unknown…yes, Shep admitted he most certainly had a little cowboy in him.

A short man with a thin mustache, narrow eyes, and an upturned cowboy hat greeted Shep. Something dangled from the man’s lips, perhaps a small cigar or maybe a kind of homemade cigarette. A feint trace of breathing embers glowed at the tip.

"Corp-o-ral Law-rence Brown, sir," the horse soldier made a lazy salute that matched his lazy words. "Captain McBride is waitin’ for ya, over on Pearl Street."

Shep did not know the difference between Pearl Street and any other street in Boulder, but Corporal Brown’s knowledge suggested the area had been thoroughly scouted.

"Well then, I reckon I should get on over to Pearl Street."

Shepherd had served two years in Philadelphia’s mounted patrol, so he knew what to do with the horse presented to him.

He and an escort of a dozen riders galloped through the empty streets of Boulder. The sight at ground level matched the vision from the helicopter: many homes destroyed by fire, others crushed by explosions or blunt damage dealt by marauding devils. The cold air kept an inch of snow intact over most of the ground, but the late morning sun melted away isolated patches, revealing either muddy ground or warped pavement.

It did not take long for the entourage to reach the historic district of Boulder, a stretch that once attracted shoppers and architecture buffs. The colonists had made the walking mall area the center of their new community.

The Corporal led Shepherd to a corner building built with red and white sandstone and brick as well as tattered old awnings lining one side and smashed plate glass windows lining the other.

Several more soldiers loitered in front, one of whom Jerry Shepherd recognized: Captain Dustin McBride of the 1 ^ st Cavalry Brigade, also known as "Stonewall’s Brigade."

While Stonewall carried on the fight with the rest of his division in Oregon, the 1 ^ st Brigade had been left behind for several weeks of well-earned rest and reconstitution. Unfortunately for them, they had been nearest when a unit was needed to check on the residents of Boulder. Shepherd reigned in his ride and dismounted. His boots crunched on the snow. "General, sir." "Well look at you," Shep eyed the man head to toe. "Growin’ a beard, Dustin?"

A beard-little more than a thick goatee-sprouted from the black man’s face. It made him appear slightly older, but in truth Dustin remained a young man, even after ten years of warfare. He had joined Stonewall’s army during the first months of the new world, leaving behind a street life with gangs in Washington D.C., for a leader’s role in the fight to save humanity. That fight had cost Dustin his right ear during the battle for Wilkes-Barre.

McBride smiled. "Just a little peach fuzz, man." But the smile changed fast to a frown. "Think you’d better see this, General."

Dustin led him inside the historic National State Bank building, circa 1899.

Piles of bodies-some covered and others not-lay around the lobby. Any antique furniture or historic ornaments had long ago been looted or lost, making the interior feel open and bare.

"I think they used this place as a town hall type of thing," McBride explained. "They must’ve decided to make, well, a sort of last stand here."

Shep nodded as he took note of the bodies, discarded small arms, and the carcasses of several K9s.

Dustin said, "We found fifty dead in here, another thirty or so up and down Pearl Street. I think they used this whole section as sort of their downtown. Anyway, there’s a couple of bigger buildings nearby that were, like, factories for stuff."

"What’d they do here?"

Shep knew that everyone who lived under the protection of The Empire contributed in some fashion. The colonists, despite their isolation, did something that generated Continental Dollars which, in turn, kept fuel, ammunition, and even mail coming their way.