Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

The Vikings still pursued, closing the gap between predators and prey.

"Faster! Faster!"

Trevor saw one middle-aged man stumble and roll. A sickening crack from his leg meant he would not get up again.

A woman on his right staggered but found her balance; a soldier to his left leapt over a boulder only to be hit square in the back by an alien round.

The brush thinned into a field of grass. The mountainside became a small valley. Human feet splashed through the shallow stream there. The plop and ping of projectiles left no doubt the pursuers remained close.

Trevor shouted encouragement as he reached the northern bank where another grassy slope beckoned. His legs wobbled wearily. Could he possibly climb fast enough to escape?

Despite his fatigue, he rallied his troops forward. Patches of dirt burst into the air as enemy slugs hit the slope ahead.

The humans chugged up the mountain, trying to reach the relative cover of the tree line.

More screams as slower runners were thinned from the retreating ranks.

Trevor heard the splash of Viking boots in the stream. He heard their cry…

No, not their cry.

Woh-who-ey!..woh-who-ey!

Stonewall’s brigades slammed into the Viking front on both flanks like a vice. The cavalry bore down on the foot soldiers caught in the wide-open terrain of the small valley. While only three dozen in number, the sudden appearance of the imposing mounted soldiers and their devilish rebel yell decapitated the alien offensive.

Horse hoofs splashed through the stream. Carbines fired and swords swung. The bones of trampled aliens snapped under the strong legs of galloping steeds. Stonewall himself swooped in and lopped off a poncho’d head.

The tip of the aliens’ spear lost cohesion and splintered into small groups while the mass of the Viking force-their confidence battered- halted their charge.

Stonewall holstered his sword and pulled a revolver. He squeezed off shot after shot as he maneuvered his ride halfway up the slope in pursuit of fleeing aliens. The gallant General cornered another foe against a tree, raised his gun, and… click.

"Oh dear heavens…"

The Viking confidently raised his rifle for an easy kill.

Thwump.

A thrown knife plunged into the chest of the enemy fighter who groaned and fell.

Stonewall turned to see Kristy Kaufman on horseback.

"Why Miss Kaufman, I do believe I’m in your debt."

"That’s Ms."

He bowed then surveyed his handiwork: dozens of Vikings lay dead in the valley with several more squirming and moaning as their life bled out. A swarm of K9s hastened their end.

"Gave them a bloody nose, we did," Kristy cheered as she and the General returned toward friendly lines. "They’ll think twice before hitting us again."

"Hmm…I wish I shared your optimism. I fear our foes have a keen grasp of combat. This is but a temporary setback. Indeed, they will blame their losses on their overabundance of enthusiasm. When the smoke clears, they will realize they still hold all the advantages."

Stonewall gazed toward the top of the densely wooded hill. The last hill.

"Our mounts will be of little use now. I fear this will become a bloody mess soon."

"We’ll find a way, General."

McAllister glanced at the empty pistol in his hand.

"I hope whatever 'way' we find is not overly dependent on bullets."

– Trevor passed his 'soldiers' en route to a hastily constructed command tent. He listened as he moved and heard groans of pain, forlorn sobs, and snippets of conversations.

"…yeah, and a year ago I was at a company golf outing in Myrtle Beach, now look at me-toting a shotgun and shooting aliens. Ain’t that some kind of shit?"

"I can’t believe he’s gone. I saw him. He was running and they shot him in the back…"

"Don’t tell me to calm down! I don’t want to be calm, goddamnit!"

"Shhh…listen…me and a couple of the others are going to sneak off before morning."

He tried to block it out but he could not block out the truth of their situation.

"One clip here."

"Need pistol ammo! Anyone got any?"

"A twenty-two? That’s all I got left to fight with is a friggin’ twenty-two?"

Trevor pushed through the flaps of the tent and walked in on Stonewall reporting a best guess to Nina, Shep, Brewer, Prescott, and the Reverend: "I believe that last action by the stream dwindled the enemy’s numbers so that they no longer hold a significant numerical advantage."

Brewer lamented, "That’s great, but as it stands, we’ve got about five seconds of ammo left once they decide to come up here."

Reverend Johnny added, "I fear even with adequate caches of munitions we would be no match for this lot in our current state. Doom circles this camp like a vulture."

Before Trevor could say a word, a new voice joined the discussion as Benny Duda stuck his head through the canvas flaps of the tent.

"Um, Mr. Stone, there’s someone here who wants to speak to you."

Stone waved his hand in annoyance, "Well, send him in."

"I don’t think you want me to do that."

Jerry Shepherd cocked an eye and asked, "Why? Who is it?"

"It’s one of them."

– Trevor Stone followed the alien messenger on a return trip to the top of the second mountain. He had accepted the invitation over the animated objections of his Generals. Indeed, Johnny offered enough synonyms for treachery to fill a thesaurus.

Nevertheless, Trevor felt he had no choice. At the very least, the cease-fire allowed his troops to rest. If the aliens killed him, he would merely die a few hours before the others.

Stone followed his guide to a canvass structure surprisingly similar in material and design to his own command tent. Around that tent loitered poncho-wearing guards as well as two elephant-sized lizards loaded with packs.

The messenger pulled a string; the loosely hanging door rolled open. A soft yellow light glowed from within.

Trevor sighed and entered.

Three of the puffy-cheeked aliens waited there, dressed in humble brown cloth uniforms.

One of them stood a pace in front of the others. He stood out even more by way of his eyes: instead of two green eyes like the others, this leader had one green and one hazel, giving the otherwise docile-looking creature an intimidating glare.

Small, lighted orbs flickered from the corners. An oval table made from a plastic-like substance sat against one wall, and long scrolls of paper cluttered a circular storage rack.

The enemy leader held a small microphone-like translator to his mouth. His lips moved as he spoke into the device. A half-second delay separated the sweet-flowing dialect of the invader from the synthesized English translation.

"I welcome you, noble leader of my brave opponents. You may address me as Fromm, Force Commander."

One of the officers handed a similar device to Trevor. He rolled it in his hand, peered closely at its mesh cover, and then spoke. His English words morphed into a computerized translation of the alien language: "Um…I accepted your invitation despite the risk. I wanted to-"

"There is no risk." Trevor’s words struck a cord of annoyance with Fromm and his officers. "My people honor the sanctity of parlay."

Before the translator spoke ‘parlay,’ Trevor heard the raw alien word. It sounded something akin to swashloo.

"We pledge to protect you while you are here at our invitation."

An honorable people.

Trevor spoke slowly so the device could accurately translate his words.

"Why have you come to my world?"

"That is a question greater than this conversation. The truth is that we are here. The truth is that we have been granted rights to parts of this world. This is not a matter for discussion."

Trevor wanted to ask more. What did that mean, rights? Was the Earth to be parceled to various aliens the way North America had been divided among the European powers hundreds of years ago? Was humanity the equivalent of the Native Americans of that time?