Anthony DeCosmo - Empire

Five troop transports and two cargo carriers landed further inland, two of which were on the receiving end of the ‘fueling’ ships. The fleet formed a circle of sorts.

Jon walked toward the fueling pumps alongside Captain Casey Fink, an old-world military veteran and a big man; so big he could have been a professional wrestler. Around them within the circle, men sat on the ground or on access ramps enjoying a few minutes respite from the cramped quarters of the transports.

“Cold out,” Jon muttered in reference to the bite in the Canadian air; a frosty-white exhale accentuated the point.

“Refreshing,” Casey flapped his arms as if jump-starting circulation. “I managed to catch some shut eye during the trip. A little nip in the air is just what I need to wake up.”

“That’s because you didn’t ride with Reverend Johnny. The man snores loud enough to wake the dead.”

“Praise the Lord,” Casey mocked. “Either way, the men are happy to be out of those ships for a few minutes.”

“I’m not,” Jon cocked an eye toward the darkness threatening to engulf their oasis of light. “I don’t like it. Wish we didn’t have to refuel. Can’t those pumps work any faster?”

They arrived at one of the specially equipped Eagles filtering lake water for use in the airships’ hydrogen-powered engines. The hum and swoosh of the working pumps forced the men to raise their voices a notch.

Casey touched the metal tank and said, “Better let them take their time. Last thing we want is to have dirty fuel grounding one of the birds in the middle of no where.”

Jon snapped, “We’re already behind schedule. I wanted to get here before dark, but look at it. It’s dark.”

“Our pilot said it must be all the extra weight with the gear and the vehicles in the cargo ships that’s slowing us down. If we went any faster we never would have reached this stop.”

“That’s one excuse. Two ships were late getting started, one had mechanical problems and needed to be switched out, and then we find out someone miscalculated our cruising range so we had to power down to a flying crawl. This whole mission is borderline FUBAR and we’re not even at the sub yet.”

Casey peered at the northwestern sky. “I think it’s going to get worse. Must be a storm coming, I just saw lightening. Funny, it was pretty close, but no thunder.”

One of the K9s at the center of the makeshift camp barked. Then another. And another.

Jon felt his nerves kick into overdrive.

“Mother…Casey, get these pumps going, I want out of here.”

“Yeah…yeah sure,” any good humor drained from the soldier’s voice as more of the Grenadiers howled in warning.

Jon left Casey at the fueling ship and hurried toward the center of the sphere of light. Relaxing soldiers stood and tensed; others wandered out from inside ships.

A dozen dogs-mainly Huskies and Shepherds-trotted to the northwest edge of the camp staring at a line of giant evergreens that resembled more a castle wall than the rim of a forest.

Reverend Johnny emerged from one of the cargo Eagles wearing a white arctic jacket and carrying a machine gun.

“I fear something has taken note of our presence. Perhaps we should be leaving?”

Brewer-his eyes focused on the forest-answered, “We’re not done refueling yet. We have two birds that can’t take off.”

Johnny said, “It is our misfortune that despite the brevity of our stay something has stumbled upon-dear Lord, did you feel that?”

Both men glanced at the tough soil beneath their feet and felt another tremor.

The Reverend whispered, “Whatever it is-”

“-it must be big,” Jon finished and as the words left his mouth he saw the line of K9s growling at the woods step back, in unison, and their angry snarls grow more subdued.

He ordered, “Reverend, all the fueled ships airborne now.”

Both men saw movement in the otherwise black forest, and heard the unmistakable crack and crash of a tree falling. Then another. Then another.

“Rev, get going!”

As ordered, Reverend Johnny hurried toward one of the nearby cargo-carriers, identified by a larger side door. He went inside where the pilots should be waiting.

Jon managed to pull his eyes away from the forest and take stock of his men. Like him, they stood and watched, waiting to see what evil came their way. He pulled his walkie-talkie and radioed, “All ships that are refueled get airborne now. Drop everything, board now, and get airborne. Everyone else to arms!”

Suddenly, the K9s retreated in a sprint from the perimeter and gathered near the center of the camp as a giant came out of the forest.

Glowing red eyes some twenty-stories in the sky grabbed the onlookers’ attention first. As floodlights splashed on the creature, more details came into focus.

It wore a scaly, tinny skin that could have been flesh or possibly a kind of metal armor. It stood on two muscular, thick legs that, again, could have been organic or could have been manufactured struts. Ram horns wrapped its head on either side of those raging red eyes and it pushed aside mighty evergreens as easily as parting curtains using arms ending in cloven hooves.

A Goat-Walker.

Jon knew that Trevor encountered a goat walker for the first time during an expedition to the alien gateway in Binghamton, New York, five years ago. It had stepped into the world from some hellish dimension just as a truck bomb detonated. According to the story, a vortex formed when that gate collapsed, sucking the creature-and many of Trevor’s expedition including his friend Danny Washburn-to some unknown, but certainly horrid, fate.

While rare, they proved one of the most dangerous hostiles. Unlike the majority of alien monsters that could be categorized as predator or prey, a Goat-Walker did not conform to any logical law of nature. No nests or dens were ever found, the walkers did not appear to feed on their victims and their physical characteristics-particularly the hoof-like cloven appendages where hands should be-seemed ill suited to long-term survival.

They behaved more like an elemental force than a living animal; a walking tornado bent on destruction. As if natural selection on whatever nightmare world they hailed from favored fear and chaos in some warped version of Darwinian evolution.

“Javelins! Get the Javelins!” Brewer shouted at the soldiers assigned to the two transports still refueling. “There should be some onboard Eagle 2!”

The K9s mustered their courage and bound toward the walking skyscraper as it stepped into the heart of the camp. They stood no chance, of course, but instinctively knew they needed to buy time.

One after another, sliding ramps closed and airships took to the sky in haste. Reverend Johnny’s cargo Eagle shot up in a rapid ascent.

Meanwhile, small arms fire from the thirty-men not onboard fleeing ships pelted the creature like pebbles thrown at a battleship, while the dogs yapped and snarled.

It hovered over the camp as if considering what to stomp first. A transport parked at the outer rim of the camp took off right at the giant’s feet, drawing the creature’s attention. The pilot went to full acceleration at the same moment the monster swung a hoof-like hand. The blow missed by less than two feet.

With one potential victim out of reach, it returned its attention to the ground and stepped toward a crowd of men. They managed to scatter clear of the impact but the tremor knocked them off balance. The beast brought one of its warped ‘hands’ to the ground aiming to crush one of the men who escaped the first blow. A Grenadier dashed in front of the fallen soldier, grabbing the monster’s attention at the last second and averting the strike.

Jon raised his carbine and fired, aiming for the inferno-red eyes. His bullets either missed or did nothing; it seemed this animal offered no weak spots, no quick solutions. Nonetheless, he would try to distract and confuse the monster while the transports escaped.