Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

The cars turned onto Route 92 and headed east under a sullen dull blanket of cloud cover threatening rain. They passed isolated homes and trailers. Shadows moved on the edge of the forest and around those dwellings but time did not allow for investigation.

Ahead of them lay the small town of West Pittston, founded in the mid-1800s as a result of the anthracite boom. The 1959 Knox Mine disaster flooded shafts, entombed workers, and left the town with no more mines but a host of mom and pop shops, a strip mall, a convenience mart, and two bridges crossing the Susquehanna into the mirror town of just plain old ‘Pittston.’

Massive Oaks lined the riverbanks while home styles ranging from colonial to modern, from rich to poor, lined the streets. Armageddon made them all the same: empty.

They came to an intersection where Rt. 92 met Rt. 11. The latter approached from the south, merged with 92, and then went east across the river via a concrete bridge. Homes, a small shop, and big trees surrounded the junction while a tangle of destroyed cars cluttered the roads.

A group of ten human beings stood together near the bridge. One of them held the attention of the rest. He wore black clothes and carried something in his hand.

The Suburban halted at the edge of the intersection behind the remains of a chain-reaction crash leftover from last summer.

Trevor eyed the group as he exited the SUV. His first impression suggested a holy man gathering his flock, although that flock seemed lethargic, as if they might be sleepwalkers.

This group did not appear related to the Red Hand tribe who abducted Sheila. Still, so many people in one place presented an opportunity to collect more survivors.

"Hello! Hello!" Trevor waved toward the crowd.

The K9s, including Tyr, held defensive positions next to the transports.

As Trevor crossed the intersection, he sensed something not quite right.

"Help! Help!" A voice cried from the middle of the gang.

The flock parted and the "holy man" approached with open arms.

"Greetings my children!"

Trevor studied the priest as he walked-glided-across the pavement between wrecked cars. The man appeared older, but not old: thin but naturally so, not emaciated. His eyes were the eyes of a fire and brimstone preacher. Or a madman. He held an object, probably a bible.

"Help!" Two of the sleepwalkers shuffled, nearly fell, as they restrained someone.

"Father…what is going on here?"

"Spreading the good word, my son."

Trevor realized his error. The man did not hold a bible but, rather, a container.

The thin man with fire in his eyes opened the container.

"Come, hear the word of Voggoth and be one with The Order."

He held aloft a small thing: a slug or a fat worm.

The clergyman reached the creature toward Trevor who instinctively raised his weapon and categorized the preacher as a ‘hostile.’ The missionary anticipated resistance, and he wasn't quite human.

Four eel-like tentacles slithered forth from the holy man’s neck. Two grabbed the barrel of Trevor’s M4 and twisted it toward the ground. The other two snared Trevor’s throat, choking and pulling him toward the slug-thing.

"Do not resist, my child. Accept the living God."

A flash of cold steel.

General Stonewall McAllister’s blade severed the vile appendages. The cleric dropped the squirming creature and stumbled backward.

"Heretic! Heretic!"

One of Stonewall’s boots stomped the slug thing wiggling on the pavement. It squealed.

The clergyman, retreating to his flock, shouted angrily, "Sinners! You are beyond salvation! Feel the wrath of the living God!"

Several-but not all-of the sleepwalking humans charged, brandishing crowbars, boards, hammers, and other blunt instruments. Many of them sported large gray and red patches on their faces and arms. Their eyes stared vacantly.

Stonewall calmly suggested, "A further demonstration of our mettle may be in order."

Trevor coughed and threw the dead tentacles away, then unleashed his ire.

"Shoot them! Shoot all of them!"

A volley of shots let fly from Trevor and his compatriots. The mesmerized flock shimmied and shook awkwardly like newbies in a mosh pit as round after round found their mark, dropping four of the missionary's flock to the ground.

Trevor surveyed those who remained. Some appeared dazed and confused; as if not quite ready to follow the holy man’s orders…or maybe they would…or maybe not.

Among the remaining flock, he saw the one who had yelled for help: a starved black man in tattered clothes lying in the street. Trevor immediately recognized his old friend, Dante Jones.

"How dare you defile the converted! You shall bend to the hand of Voggoth!"

The clergyman held aloft two fleshy orbs each slightly larger than a softball. He tossed the objects along the road as if bowling. As the balls rolled, they expanded in mass much like a cartoon snowball growing larger as it cascades down a slope.

The objects grew to the size of very large beach balls and stopped rolling. Thin appendages pushed through the surface into the air, bent at some sort of joint, and reached to the ground. They resembled huge Daddy Long-Legs spiders.

"Punish the heretics! Destroy all the non-believers!"

Two horizontal glowing red slits cracked open on the balls like bloody wounds and two rows of smaller circles-almost barrels-popped to the surface as well. Between those two rows of circles emerged a bone-like object that could have been the head of a large drill.

Overall, standing on their creepy thin legs, the beach ball heads hovered some eight feet above the ground.

Trevor fired. Woody fired. Stonewall fired. Jon and Dustin fired. The jolt of impacting bullets pushed against the spider-things, forcing the combination body/head to bob and bounce. Yet the creatures absorbed the bullets as they advanced.

The humans fell back.

Trevor bumped his butt into a burned out Firebird. He turned to run around the coupe. At that moment, the drill-like cone on front of one of the spider-things shot forward. That weapon flew in a straight, hard line and slammed into and through the remains of the Firebird. After a moment, the hose-like tendon holding the drill head retracted into the creature’s face.

Trevor saw the band of converts and their leader drag off Dante.

"No! Dante! No!"

Trevor stopped retreating and prepared to charge. He would NOT let Dante be taken.

Jon Brewer’s strong hands clamped on Trevor’s shoulders. At that moment, the round circles on The Order’s combatants made their purpose known.

They sounded similar to rapid-fire air pistols, absently reminding Trevor of the machine-gun BB rifles at the boardwalk in New Jersey; the ones for which you paid $2 for 50 shots in the hope of winning a stuffed animal. The projectiles were small but hard and sharp. The first flurry of shots rippled across a car carcass in pursuit of human targets.

Jon yanked on Trevor's shoulders to pull him toward the escape vehicles. Their legs intertwined and they stumbled to the ground next to the wreckage of a Jeep Wagoneer.

The lead attacker stopped firing at dead cars, wobbled forward on its spindly legs, then bore down on Trevor and Jon. Its shadow cast a circle of darkness over them.

Two K9s leapt first on the Wagoneer’s hood then on to the face of the monster, rending and tearing with claws and teeth until gravity pulled them off. While the K9s distracted the enemy, Jon tried to get Trevor to safety.

"C’mon," but Trevor fought against Jon’s grip.

"Dante!"

"We can’t save him!" Jon shouted as "Bear" Ross added his hands to help restrain Trevor.

"Yes! Yes, we can! Damn it! Let go!"

Trevor’s fury nearly provided enough strength to rip free of their gasp, but they managed to haul him off.