Anthony DeCosmo - Schism

General Garrett "Stonewall" McAllister’s eyes wandered away from the conversation in favor of the scenic vista viewable from his position along the ridge.

In one direction-behind and below Yost and his men-stretched the massive bowl of Crater Lake filled with cold blue water. Not far from shore sprouted Wizard Island, a volcanic cinder cone covered in evergreen trees and scattered patches of stubborn snow belying the mid-March warm spell.

McAllister spied the sagging wooden huts and dirty canvas tents of Yost’s kingdom on that island. Flickers of light came from morning campfires as the people there marked another day under the thumb of a warlord.

Further off-away from the six-mile-wide caldera-stretched green wilderness as far as Garrett’s eyes could see, beneath a roof of gray, drizzling clouds from which waved spindly strands of misty vapor.

The isolated location, the rugged crater walls, and the natural moat surrounding the island created the perfect redoubt for the warlord and those unfortunate to fall into his grasp. Garret witnessed the same scenario dozens of times across the continental United States. The organized alien armies sought heavily populated areas, leaving much of the mountainous regions to the mercy of monsters, extraterrestrial and otherwise.

Stonewall returned his attention to the task at hand.

"Ah yes, where was I?"

As usual, he sat in the saddle wearing a Confederate uniform borrowed from a Civil War museum a decade before. Benny Duda hovered at Garrett’s side, also on horseback. Benny had grown from a boy to a man but still sported the freckled face of a kid. A kid, Garrett reminded himself, with a wife and children.

"Oh, I remember. You will be brought before a tribunal that will include members of your…of your…" Stonewall searched for polite words. "…of your community. They will testify as to whether or not you and your men have committed any crimes against humanity."

As Stonewall expected, Yost chuckled and glanced at his followers-a dozen armed ruffians-to share the joke. After all, a crazy fool dressed in a Confederate uniform offered no real threat, especially with Yost’s modified armored car lurking next to a picnic table in the field. That metallic monster brandished a. 50 caliber machine gun. The word 'Totenkompf’ had been spray painted on the side.

Yost, standing in front of McAllister’s steed, stroked his goatee and mocked, "Well, I guess you’ve got me on this one. Yup."

The warlord broke into a laugh that sounded more an asthma attack.

"I do not believe you grasp the seriousness of your situation. If found guilty by this tribunal you will be sentenced to death. The Empire has executed more than two hundred persons for crimes against humanity in the years since the invasion."

The word ‘executed’ grabbed Yost’s attention. He stopped laughing.

"Listen here, General. I’m starting to lose my sense of humor over this. Now you see back there," Yost pointed over his shoulder to Wizard Island. "I made that from nothing. The army and police got wiped out. Me and my men here, we’ve kept these folks alive for the last ten years, fishing and hunting for food and shooting any of the weird things that come this way. So I ain’t going to be lectured by the likes of you."

"Saved them? My scouts have been observing your little kingdom for several weeks now and have painted a clear picture of forced labor and other misdeeds. Would the women of your camp testify to your chivalry? I notice the population of your paradise is out of proportion."

Yost's eyes widened. "You know how the song goes, two girls for every boy."

The brute again glanced to his followers and they shared another laugh.

"You, sir, are no gentleman. I have seen much suffering but none disgusts me greater than those who took advantage of the chaos to serve their own ends. I will make it a point to be at your trial and, I suspect, your execution."

"I told you, I’m done listening to your words. Go away while we’ll still let you."

To emphasize the point, Yost raised his hunting rifle. His men made similarly threatening moves, raising more hunting rifles and shotguns.

Stonewall asked, "I wonder, Mr. Yost, as to the vintage of the bullets in your weapons. Will they fire? The bullets in my pistol were made last month in Scranton, Pennsylvania. I have confidence in their effectiveness."

Yost growled, "I don’t need to fire. The Death’s Head over there will cut you and your boy to pieces before you can draw."

On cue, the driver of the armored, modified Jeep revved the engine and a man in the homemade cupola aimed a. 50 caliber gun in the newcomers' direction.

"Now you and your boyfriend need to turn tail and take your Empire fantasies with you."

Stonewall sighed as if regretting the situation but, in truth, he enjoyed the next part most of all. The General spoke into the small microphone clipped under the lapel of his uniform.

"Captain Kaufman, it appears our friends doubt our mettle. A demonstration is in order."

Yost fidgeted; unsure to whom the eccentric spoke.

The sky rumbled. Everyone on the ridge of the crater froze and threw their eyes upward. The clouds bulged from a great mass. The quilt of gray splintered into strands and spinning wisps as a gargantuan object of steel and light dropped from the heavens: a rectangle stretching nearly five thousand feet from bow to stern and half that distance in girth descended upon the stage, casting an even darker shadow across the already dreary morning.

Dozens of circular protrusions lined the undercarriage of the war machine in rows, between which flashed pinpricks of light. Dominating the forward edge of the ship's belly hung a pair of protruding domes where two holes glowed threateningly.

Stonewall forced his eyes away from the hovering dreadnought and took note of Yost’s expression. The man no longer wore the cocky face of a petty tyrant.

Of course, Stonewall appreciated the trepidation. Indeed, it had taken him almost two years to grow accustomed to the sight of a dreadnought. It did not seem right for such a large machine to hang in the sky. To see one overhead…it made all below feel puny.

The General cast aside his musings and decided to finish the demonstration.

"I say, Mr. Yost, what an intimidating car you have there. I imagine you have used its firepower to coerce a fair share of slaves into your camp."

Stonewall’s voice cut through the stunned silence. Yost shot an expression of bewildered fear toward his modified armored car. Despite their brutish nature, Yost’s thugs managed to piece together the equation and dismounted their war wagon in frantic jumps.

Silvery plasma sparkled then spat from the forward belly guns of the dreadnought in two football-shaped blasts. Yost’s men scattered like cockroaches caught in the kitchen light. The bolts hit the picnic grounds, enveloping the armored car.

The glow from the impact forced hands over eyes and the heat flash felt as if a gigantic campfire suddenly burst to life, but no flames erupted. After a moment, the light faded revealing metal shavings, smoldering rubber, and hissing steam in place of the Totenkompf.

"Now that I have your attention, be so kind as to place your weapons on the ground."

– Lori Brewer returned the phone to its cradle with a satisfying clunk. She knew the Internal Security moron on the other end of the line did not hear nor feel that clunk, but the slam provided a small vent for her frustration.