Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

Further away, the gargantuan Veteran’s Hospital and the Wyoming Valley Mall dominated the terraced mountainside in the northeastern quadrant of the basin. Not far from those two landmarks sat shopping centers and restaurants surrounding a new arena, itself constructed next to an Interstate 81 on-ramp.

On the near side of the Susquehanna, Route 11 paralleled the western bank of the river, running through suburbs and past strip malls. Similar to the homes on the eastern banks, the homes on the "West Side" included gothic Victorian residences that had survived the floodwaters mixed among Nixon-era ranches and duplexes built where those waters had swept away less fortunate houses.

More neighborhoods-comprised mainly of smaller homes and double-blocks-lived on the mountainsides book ending the valley.

Several bridges spanned the river, linking east to west. These included the Cross Valley Expressway to the north, two smaller bridges near downtown, a third span connecting the southern neighborhoods, and another expressway even farther to the south.

Despite all he had seen in the last few months, Jon found it hard to believe that the serene picture under that cloudless blue sky hid unspeakable monsters, decaying bodies, and other assorted nightmares. Nevertheless, he knew they were there.

For the first few days, Jon had followed Trevor because his mind was shell-shocked by the estate, the dogs, the equipment, the guns, and the horded food. He simply could not wrap his mind around the situation. Of course, his questions did not stop at the stockpiled supplies.

"Where did you learn to shoot?"

"How can you can break down and clean a rifle as fast as me?"

"How do you get those dogs-I mean K9s-to do what you want?"

Trevor's answer: "I picked it up."

Nevertheless, Jon played his role…thus far.

That role started with easy patrols. Jon suspected those patrols aimed to test his willingness to take orders.

Four days after the Brewers came to the estate, Trevor took Jon to the scattered collection of up-scale housing developments and small farms known as Shavertown. The K9s had tracked the scent of a Devilbat to a supermarket there.

Trevor led them into the dark market with so little fear that it served as a challenge to Jon. Indeed, he dared not retreat; not when Trevor actually stepped forward to attack in the face of the creature's flapping, fibrous wings and hissing, fanged mouth.

Jon had watched in fascination. Could that really be Richard Stone?

No. His name is Trevor.

When the smoke from their firing cleared, the Devilbat lay dead, Trevor had shown his mettle, and Mr. Brewer understood how much the world had changed.

Back atop the mountain, Jon asked, "You said someday you want to clear the city? You want to go in there and root everything out?"

"You still don’t get this, do you? You need to understand-"

A noise interrupted the conversation: a vibration chopping the air over the valley.

"There," Jon pointed to an object flying south to north: a blue and white helicopter with ‘POLICE’ stenciled on the side. The chopper traced the Susquehanna River with its engine emitting a wounded chug.

The helo flew above the residential neighborhoods of south Wilkes-Barre on the east side of the river but the more the engine chugged, the more altitude it lost.

"They’re going to crash," Jon said.

"Yes, and we’re going to rescue them."

To Jon, that sounded suicidal. It meant the two of them with a small compliment of K9s fighting their way into a city infested with hostiles.

The chopper fell from view behind trees and rooftops. The sound of a heavy metallic thud reached the observers’ ears. No fireball or explosion.

"Let’s go," Trevor said.

Jon hesitated.

"Jon, this is what it's all about. What's it going to be?"

Jon swallowed hard, nodded, and followed.

– Stone guided the motor home around hairpin turns as they descended the twisty, paved road of "Plymouth Mountain." Overworked brakes filled the cabin with a dusty, burning smell and the entire vehicle threatened to rollover with each hard bend. Isolated homes and trailers populated the mountainside but they saw no living beings, human or otherwise.

During the drive, Jon transmitted offers of help via the CB radio on multiple frequencies but received no reply.

After half-an-hour, they reached the bottom of the mountain and the borough of Plymouth.

Tiny shops, corner bars, and pizzerias lined the steep side streets of the tiny town. Some of those streets angled up the mountain, others down toward the Susquehanna. Route 11, the major road on that side of the river, cut directly through Plymouth. Trevor and Jon followed that route north until they came to a river crossing. That is when they saw their first hostile.

It emerged from beneath an ugly concrete bridge built recently by PennDot to replace an aging stone and metal span. The creature stood nearly nine feet on two thick legs with wiry black and silver hair and four muscular arms. It swung a lizard’s tail and gnashed jaws akin to a crocodile’s snout.

Jon said, in a surprisingly calm voice, "There’s a troll living under the bridge."

It climbed the embankment and intercepted the vehicle. Trevor slammed the brakes and the RV skidded to a halt, facing the creature at twenty yards. The Troll stood and glared as if savoring a meal to come. Its jaws hung open in what might have been a smile of sorts.

That changed.

Suddenly its eyes widened and its four arms waved in self-defense. Something huge swooped from the sky, seized the Troll in massive talons, and flew off.

Trevor and Jon leaned forward and watched a big black silhouette with dual sets of wings similar to a dragonfly soar away to the north with the silver and black haired monster struggling in its grasp.

The two men glanced at one another but could not think of anything to say.

Stone pressed the accelerator and they crossed the Susquehanna into the southwestern neighborhoods of Wilkes-Barre. The road became "Carey Avenue," a passage meandering through those neighborhoods toward the center of town. Based on what the men had witnessed from the mountaintop, they calculated the chopper crashed somewhere near Meyers High School, about a mile from the bridge.

Trevor soon realized he had been wrong about one thing: Wilkes-Barre was no ‘dead city.’ It teemed with life.

A mob of Ghouls identical to the things Trevor had seen attack the television station during the initial onslaught, gathered in a used car lot fighting over scraps. They were too busy pushing and clawing one another to notice the RV.

The rescuers continued onward underneath a railroad bridge and through a major intersection where they saw an abandoned alien plane crashed into the front of a half-burned Burger King. About the size of a fighter jet, it sported two sharp-looking scimitar wings.

Then they saw another ship. Or, at least, what they thought must be a ship because it flew high above the city. Longer and wider than a passenger jet, its shape defied the laws of aerodynamics. Indeed, it resembled more a blob than a craft, coated in a sickly green color with the texture of skin.

The ship-or creature-disappeared over the southern horizon.

As they drove, all manner of animals scurried about, most running from the motor home as if it might be a predator. Trevor had already noted the variety of invading creatures, many of which were docile and timid. Among those lived carrion eaters who, in a very practical sense, aided his cause.

Nonetheless, many human bodies remained.

No, that was not right.

Parts of human bodies: the indigestible chunks predators did not want or the carrion eaters could not consume. Most of those remains had decomposed into gory piles, some more recognizable such as the messy heap on a curb wearing a Phillies jersey, the skeletal frame on a smashed Honda motorcycle, and a filleted body laying near a precious booty of cigarette cartons outside a convenience store.