Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

He crawled toward the far side of the lobby as plasma shots streaked overhead. The windows on that side afforded a view across one ‘fin’ of the intersection toward the large field. At the end of that field stood a tree line…and a row of figures: maybe fifty from what he could see. Nearly a mile away but marching forward. No, wobbling forward.

"Damn!"

"What? What is it?" Washburn shouted between bursts of fire.

"That’s why the patrols didn’t catch their scent!" Trevor explained as he crawled back. "Because they weren’t here yesterday!"

"What are you saying?" Nina yanked free an expended magazine.

A bolt of energy exploded the edge of the toppled desk into splinters.

"These ones are a scouting party!"

Nina fit a new magazine in her rifle, slapped the bolt closed, popped her head above the barricade, let fly a series of bullets, and then ducked behind their tenuous cover again.

"And how do you know that?"

Track lighting crashed to the floor behind the teller stations raising a cloud of dust.

Trevor told her, "Because the rest of their army is about five minutes away."

Nina shouted, "Oh, this is just great! I knew this shit would happen! I knew it!"

Trevor spoke with a commander’s voice: "Cowboy up, soldier! I don’t need fighters who lose it at the first sign of trouble!"

Her icy blue eyes widened. Nina mumbled something, popped up again, took aim at the scouting party cornering them, and plugged one of the things above its beak.

Good, Trevor thought. Be angry but don’t be discouraged.

"Home plate this is left field, do you copy?"

This time an answer came, but static overwhelmed whatever voice tried to reply.

"I can’t hear you, home plate, but if you can hear me we are at the Shavertown shopping center across from the high school!"

The plasma shots from outside stopped. The bank fell quiet except for the crack, twitch, and flutter of debris floating about. The three waited behind the over turned desk…waited…the silence broke with a sound that made Trevor think of an eight ball sinking in the side pocket on a pool table. Something rolled in to the building; sort of a glowing ping-pong ball.

Washburn gasped, "Oh crap."

The device rolled at their makeshift barricade. The three bolted in different directions.

The glowing ball exploded, shattering the desk. Shards of wood rained through the lobby and the concussion shook the entire building. More paintings and community service awards fell from walls. Once-important now-meaningless documents flew around like a ticker tape parade.

Trevor pushed off a desk chair that had landed on him and realized, yes, his limbs remained although a ripple of splinters in his forearm provided a painful sting.

Nina avoided the blast by toppling another desk for cover. Washburn jumped behind the teller windows. Both appeared unharmed.

Trevor dared a glance toward the field. The line of infantry moved slowly but relentlessly. Time favored the bad guys.

Plasma bolts rained in again. Trevor and Danny joined Nina at the newly overturned desk as the hot streaks of energy searched randomly for targets.

Trevor knew they needed to escape before the main force arrived. He spied a plan. A long shot, but a shot nonetheless.

Their besiegers ringed the front of the bank using parked cars for cover, including his Humvee. In fact he could see it, barely, through the smoke of battle.

"Nina, how good are you at tossing a grenade?"

During their stay at one of the doomed rescue stations, Shep’s team scored a few anti-personnel grenades, courtesy of the Pennsylvania National Guard. Nina carried one.

Trevor tapped her shoulder and pointed at the Humvee.

"Are you nuts? I can’t waste this thing, I only brought one!"

Two quick enemy bursts flew low over their heads, exploding a teller’s station behind.

"Do it!" Stone raised his weapon and ordered Washburn: "Suppression fire!"

Their storm of bullets forced the platypuses into cover. Nina pulled the pin, stood, and heaved the grenade. It looped through the air, rattled across the hatchback of a Honda Accord, and bounced next to the rear wheels of the Humvee.

One…Two… Three…the grenade detonated. Chunks of car flew away from the explosion. The gasoline containers in the Humvee rocketed skyward, overheated, and blew. Burning fuel-like napalm-rained over the enemy and caused a chain reaction as it splashed on parked cars. Those cars, in turn, exploded spawning curling fireballs of yellow, orange, and black.

Two of the platypuses evaporated in the explosions, four more wobbled around on fire squealing an ungodly noise. Shock overcame the remaining creatures. They dove to the ground or staggered about, overcome by the noise, the smoke, and the heat.

As suicidal as it felt, Trevor knew survival hinged on taking the offensive. He stood and mustered his comrades for a forward charge. A noise rose above the sharp report of the explosions and the crackle of the fires. Trevor halted their charge a step outside the bank.

Woh-who-ey! Woh-who-ey!

A ball of black smoke from the burning cars created a visceral wall at the end of the lot. That smoke parted as a human force came galloping through. Literally galloping on horseback raking the platypuses with pistol and rifle fire. The leader of the cavalry swung a sword and relieved one of the creatures of its head.

Already confused and disorientated from the explosions, the alien scouts deteriorated into disorganized rabble firing nary a shot as the horse soldiers exterminated them one by one.

Twenty riders and three wagons followed their leader through the smoke. They dodged and weaved between fireballs and flames as they finished off the creatures. The last soldier of the platypus’ vanguard dropped its rifle and ran for the candy store, suffering a bullet in its back.

Trevor felt certain the leader of the new arrivals must be an illusion. He rode tall in the saddle with a thick beard and handlebars mustache as well as heavy but well-groomed side burns. He wore a hat made of fur-felt material with a creased crown wrapped by a grosgrain band and a matching jacket with rows of ornate buttons. Both the jacket and the hat were colored in old mist gray, recalling the color of the confederacy during the War Between the States.

Other than their leader, the riders dressed in "normal" outfits such as fading leather jackets, vests, overcoats, sweatshirts, jeans, slacks, and more.

The man in charge gazed at the field and the approaching line of enemy forces.

"Mister Ross!" He commanded from his mount. "Stand to and deploy the cannon!"

Mr. Ross, a thick-necked black man with a shaved head and bulldog jowls, dismounted and stood at the edge of the parking lot overlooking the field full of incoming attackers.

Mr. Ross’ deep voice nearly shook the ground: "You heard the General! Mortar team assemble on my mark!"

Four people jumped from a wagon: an elderly man, a young woman, a man with a goatee, and a chubby fellow wearing a "Maryland Terrapins" sweatshirt. They produced two light military mortars and ammunition boxes from the wagon.

"Steady…steady," the ‘General’ encouraged as he viewed the approaching line through field glasses. A young boy, maybe twelve years old and also on horseback, waited in the General’s shadow holding a trumpet.

"Mr. Ross, range is 100 meters."

"Range! One! Hun-dred!"

The mortars fired with a dull ‘thwoop’. Their missiles whistled over the field then fell upon the enemy. Two explosions rocked the approaching force. Several of the aliens bounced into the air like rag dolls tossed by a child. More of that ungodly squealing noise.

"Do you need medical attention?"

The question came from a thirty-ish woman on horseback dressed in a rugged navy blue outfit straight from the Orvis catalog with her hair in a meticulously crafted bun. She projected a prim and proper manner. She also carried a high-powered hunting rifle.