Anthony DeCosmo - Empire

The convoys began arriving around dawn, but Shepherd knew they would not be in a position to march for a few more hours. He hoped that if they started up again by ten o’clock, they might still reach the border before sunset.

Nonetheless, the path ahead provided a small sense of trepidation. The impassable Green Swamp encroached on 17 from the north and east, filled with dense evergreen shrub bog, long leaf pines, and thick patches of yellow pitcher plants not to mention the immediate threat of alligators as well as plenty of non-Earthly hostiles.

Furthermore, 17 remained the only passable route heading for the border and his destination of Conway, South Carolina. While the Green Swamp kept a barrier between his army and the disorganized, retreating Hivvan forces falling into a pocket to the west, if enemy command in Columbia learned of his maneuver and managed to send a substantial force up from the south, they could easily block his advance.

However, there were advantages, too. First, that barrier the swamp provided meant he did not have to sacrifice as many units to man checkpoints to solidify the trap. Second, aerial reconnaissance spotted what appeared to be a major human settlement along the way. Their liberation would be a nice bonus as part of what could be a major victory for the newly christened “Empire.”

So on the morning of Monday, August 24, while Jerry Shepherd sat in his temporary command post inside an old truck rental garage waiting for his troops to receive re-supply, cavalry scouts from his army galloped south to survey the road ahead.

Captain Cassy Simms rode on horseback with a group of four other patrollers. The sun’s beams shot at them from the east across the coastal plain.

Cassy had joined Trevor’s band of survivors as part of General Stonewall McAllister’s party. However, she proved her mettle on several occasions and earned a command of her own. That opportunity came with a brigade in General Shepherd’s 1 ^ st Mechanized Division.

While she left behind Stonewall, she did not leave behind the notion of riding on horseback. The speed and maneuverability often provided great advantage on the battlefield, not to mention the pure shock value of a mounted warrior.

Besides, horses were not slaves to gas. So while the Humvees and Bradleys sat idle waiting for a drink of their precious fuel, Cassy Simms led a handful of mounted scouts on a reconnaissance mission, per General Shepherd’s orders.

She moved them along the wide, four lanes of Route 17 south on the path the rest of the army would soon follow.

Mid-morning, they passed what had once been called Town Creek, North Carolina. The forest and bog there came right to the pavement at some points. Isolated homes dotted the landscape, all apparently empty giving the area a peaceful feel, despite the occasional roar of something unworldly from the surrounding wilderness.

That peace dissipated as they approached what a sign told them should be the town of Winnabow. Only debris remained of that place.

First, she saw a flattened U-Haul rental center where the propane tanks appeared to have exploded. Another-or perhaps the same-conflagration consumed dozens of forested acres, isolated houses, and mobile homes to either side of the highway, leaving behind charred trees and vacant foundations as well as dozens of cars, some overturned, others twisted together in piles.

In her years of fighting against the invaders, Cassy came upon all manner of apocalyptic destruction left over from those first months. This particular carnage felt a little different from most. She tried to understand why and as they trotted through, she realized the difference: no human bones, and no extraterrestrial bodies.

Her patrol continued onward, leaving behind the ruins.

The wilderness crept in on either side of Rt. 17. The forest grew thick, fed by swamps.

After a spell, that forest retreated again and gave way to a golden, grassy field that descended a long, soft embankment. At the bottom of that embankment, straddling Route 17, stood a town.

At a half-mile’s distance, Cassy Simms spied wood and brick buildings, even a large structure reminding her of something like a Greek amphitheater.

Cassy raised her binoculars and surveyed the sight. She saw two and three story buildings, what appeared to be barns, as well as small homes grouped together.

To her surprise, the entire town appeared to be made of new construction. Many of the wood beams remained unpainted and bright white mortar held together brick walls, suggesting recent completion. No graying paint, all fresh colors. No litter.

That golden field bordered the town on the north and east, providing a buffer between the village and dense woodlands.

Through her field glasses, she followed Route 17 as it continued through the center of town and to the south beyond. There she saw more destroyed buildings and debris, yet this debris appeared to have been cleared and organized, resembling something more like a monument than the leftovers of a calamity.

“Captain…” one of her soldiers called for her attention.

A group of four persons approached the patrol. They walked along the road at a casual pace but Cassy saw rifles slung over their shoulders.

Captain Simms waved her team forward at a non-threatening trot. This would not be the first time she made “first contact” with a band of survivors. Certainly, they would be suspicious. They might fear that Cassy led a band of marauders. They would be defensive and uneasy. She reminded herself to keep her temper in check and her dual pistols in their shoulder holsters.

As the gap closed, Cassy dismounted and approached the group of three men and one woman.

One of the men-a big man with broad shoulders and a freckled face-carried himself as if in charge. His appearance would have screamed ‘red neck’ if not for the soft, hand-woven tunic and primitive but skillfully crafted sandals he wore.

Perhaps he’s a redneck / beatnik hybrid, she thought. I wonder if the redneck in him will have a problem talking to a black woman.

“Hi, um, we mean you no harm,” she did her best to smile, something not naturally in her character. “My name is Captain Cassy Simms and I’ve got good news. Consider your town liberated.”

The redneck/beatnik hybrid cringed as if he bit into a sour apple.

“Liberated? What the hell does that mean?”

“I know; there are only four of us. We’re a scouting party for the 1 ^ st Mechanized Division. We’re part of a human army that’s been retaking the entire region. Why, we control everything all the way up to Pennsylvania.”

The leader spoke again, this time with less sour-face.

“And why would I care about that?”

This caught Cassy off guard. Usually she received one of two responses. The first response might be disbelief, either in shock, or in fear of deception.

The second response was normally a flood of questions or requests such as “do you have food?” or “we need medicine” or even “help us, there’s a horned monster with glowing red eyes that keeps stealing the town’s women.”

Occasionally they would stumble upon warlords running a colony of slaves, usually with a three to one female to male ratio. In such instances, bullets met scouting parties.

This response-one of indifference-came as a surprise.

Cassy eyed this man a little closer, trying to see beyond the redneck physique and the beatnik clothing.

No malnutrition, clean grooming, and his teeth appeared in decent shape. This was not a struggling survivor.

However, she followed the first contact playbook and said, “Why would you care? Well, because we can get you food, medicine, and all sorts of supplies. If there are any hostiles around here bugging you, we’ll hunt them down and wipe them out.”