Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

"It may be impossible, but we will have to try, General."

"Impossible? Oh, I say not, Sir. True, during our travels north along the flanks of Interstate 81 we saw many horrors. Yet we found something else, too. We found survivors: hidden villages, campgrounds, isolated farms; places where humanity hides from the Apocalypse. They are out there waiting for hope and leadership."

As he listened, he wondered if he, Trevor Stone- formerly ‘Dick’ — could be that resourceful and heroic leader. Certainly, McAllister thought so. What about Nina? Had his mistake at the strip mall reinforced her view of him as unworthy? Or had his plan to blow up the Humvee made her think more of him?

He tried to forget about it. What did he care what she thought? Right?

McAllister said, "I best return to the festivities. Your Mr. Corso prepared Country Captain Chicken in our honor; I had better return before Bear devours it all."

"Good night, General. And welcome."

McAllister tipped his hat and entered the house; his sword-a museum piece, no doubt-jingled as he walked.

A moment after the door closed behind Stonewall, it opened again and Lori Brewer joined Trevor on the porch. Dogs patrolled the grounds, the crickets sung, and lake water lapped calmly to shore.

Trevor considered McAllister's warning about what waited beyond those mountains. Yet he could not help thinking today was a good day.

Lori did her best to spoil it. "That man has problems, you know."

"We all have problems."

"I mean it. What made him run away and hide inside the front of a Civil War general?"

Trevor ran a hand over his cheek chasing away a mosquito and told her, "One day Stonewall will face his demons. Until then, I need fighters like him. Leaders."

"And what happens when he faces those demons?"

"I guess the same thing that happens to anyone when they take a good look at their own soul, to see what’s really living down there."

Lori asked Trevor; asked him, "And what is that?"

"I couldn’t say."

Nature celebrated Stonewall's coming to the estate with a bout of 'Indian Summer'. Temperatures rose to the upper sixties, the skies cleared, and the sun shined. Yet at the same time, the march of autumn continued unabated as Oak, Hickory, and Maple leaves completed their metamorphosis to russet, bronze, and scarlet.

Trevor opened the balcony doors allowing a breeze and the morning sun to enter the 'Command Center' where his de-facto officers gathered four days after Stonewall's arrival.

On the gigantic desk rested a map of Wilkes-Barre. Trevor pointed to an intersection.

"There, see? A dental supply company."

McAllister-dressed in his confederate uniform with the hat politely tucked under his arm-noted in a southern drawl, "For the occasional tooth ache, I suppose?"

Shep gently pushed the General's scabbard aside and leaned over the map, too.

Trevor pointed to another part of Wilkes-Barre. "Optical Manufacturing."

"My wife wears lenses," Jon said. "She'll need a re-supply as will other people, too."

Shepherd chimed in, "I’m more worried about our stocks of penicillin and antibiotics. Without that stuff a sore throat could turn to worse."

Trevor said, "About thirty miles off this map is Aventis Pasteur in Swiftwater, a pharmaceutical manufacturing plant. Vaccines, antibiotics…everything. Plus four hospitals in Wilkes-Barre and plenty of doctor offices, clinics and medical labs."

Jon Brewer tapped the tabletop just beyond the north end of the map.

"Scranton. Chamberlain Munitions. One of the biggest producers of ammo for the U.S. They do large caliber stuff but will have the materials and tools for smaller calibers, too."

"I reckon that might be a priority for us," Shepherd said.

Jon parodied, "I reckon you're right."

"Not half-bad," the older man conceded with a smile.

Trevor swept his hand over the map saying, "Interstates 80 and 81, the PA Turnpike, all at our front door. New York and Philly both about three hours away. Tobyhanna Army Depot and Ft. Indiantown Gap; lots of goodies laying around for the taking. But closer to home we've got the Kingston armory and the Marine Tactical Support Wing on Route 11."

"I see your grand strategy has vision," Stonewall addressed Trevor. "Alas, I fear we lack the necessary…um… divisions to accomplish these goals."

Trevor rested a hand on the eccentric’s shoulder and glanced around making eye contact with each of the three men.

"Yes, castles in the sky. Now we have to build the foundation underneath."

A German Shepherd named "Seth" trotted in to the room passing between two Dobermans guarding the entryway. The dog tilted its head while staring at its Master.

Trevor translated: "Hostiles, not far from here. And they’ve got prisoners."

– The warehouse blotted an otherwise isolated stretch of gently rolling hills along a snaking country road. At one point, a tall chain link fence enclosed the entire property. Time, or Armageddon, toppled it. Benjamin Trump would have wept.

The front of the bland rectangular structure sported two windows flanking a heavy wooden door with a dented white awning above. Around the rear were loading docks for whatever widgets had shipped from and to the place. The sagging roof and flaking sky blue paint suggested the building sat neglected for decades.

The cement parking lot had shifted and cracked over the years. Grass and ugly weeds competed to grow in those cracks. Piles of old wooden shipping palettes, discarded tires, a rusted-through Volvo commercial truck, and assorted debris of a surprising variety cluttered the lot and created a maze of rubbish.

Near the front door, four Mutant hover bikes were parked around a tall pillar resembling a glowing, forty-foot replica of the Washington monument. It appeared to be a kind of power station for the vehicles.

Across the road from the warehouse, the messy parking lot, the Mutant power station, and the toppled fence waited Captain Shepherd and Stonewall McAllister hidden atop one of those forested hills. With a dozen Grenadiers waiting nearby, they observed the progress of two assault teams weaving toward the building through the labyrinth of clutter.

Trevor led the team on the left including Jon Brewer, Woody "Bear" Ross and the K9s Tyr and Seth. About fifteen yards to the right moved Nina Forest, Sal Corso and Danny Washburn. The two groups paralleled one another as they crept toward the warehouse.

Experience suggested the captives would suffer a while; Mutants proved a sadistic lot.

Nina moved her column in unison with Trevor’s. She knew the mission; she had led a hundred similar missions over the years, albeit not against alien hostage-takers.

She felt a heavy throb of frustration: I'm expected to operate under the command of an unproven kid who looks awkward holding an assault rifle?

Some piles of junk stood quite tall, casting shadows and creating alternating patches of light and dark, warm and cool. A breeze blew across the lot rousting an eclectic collection of smells living among the junk: decades old dust, animal droppings, oily rags.

Nina stopped her team and whispered to Sal, "Let’s see how much our leader knows."

Sal cautioned, "Nina…"

She knelt next to an overturned bathtub lying atop crushed boxes and raised a tight fist: a tactical hand signal translating to "hold." Sal and Danny recognized the signal and stopped.

After a moment, Trevor saw her signal. It did not surprise Nina when Trevor halted his group; the hold signal was rather universal.

For his part, Trevor spied a mean glare in her blue eyes. He guessed her mischief as she flashed a series of more complicated signals. She pointed to Trevor, then at her own eyes with both fingers, then made a walking motion with her fingers, then motioned toward the building.