Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

"No, but he gave me a general idea of where those camps are. Enough to go after her. We will bring her back to her home. I need someone to lead a rescue team."

"I’ll do it," Nina spoke as if it a foregone conclusion. "I figure three others-"

"No."

The room exploded in silence. Wind brushed across the glass of the windows. Nina’s eyes widened and her mouth hung open.

Trevor’s cold expression did not change but he delighted in her shock. He found some satisfaction in tormenting her; in being cruel to her: punishing her for having the same blackness in her heart that he found in his own.

"What?" She put a stiff finger on the table, "Listen, I’m the best person you got."

"No you’re not," Trevor spat the words at her (at himself?). "This is a rescue mission. I want her back alive. When we start killing again, I’ll call for you."

Her lip stiffened. What flickered behind her eyes? Not anger, no longer shock; not even damaged pride. Something else. Had his words hurt? Had those words punctured her armor?

"Jon."

"Yes, Trevor?"

"Put together a team. Go get her, Jon…I know you can do this. Bring her home."

– Brewer left later that morning with Dustin McBride, Shep, two men from Stonewall’s troop, and nine Grenadiers. According to Dante Jones, the Red Hands lived in four settlements close to the river north of West Pittston, each with a couple dozen tribesmen plus human slaves.

They drove the first part of the trip then waded into the countryside on foot. Early that evening they caught sight of the first camp nestled in a forest clearing a few hundred yards from the river. The team observed the tribe undetected.

The Red Hands' village included many small dwellings made of stretched animal hides anchored between wooden poles. Two larger buildings-constructed of log beams, thatch, and animal skins-reminded Jon of Indian longhouses and sat near the center of activity.

From a distance, he nearly mistook the Red Hands for storybook versions of the Susquehannock or Seneca tribes that had lived in those parts hundreds of years ago. Closer inspection revealed a nastier race.

Entryways sported trophies of mounted skulls. A fair number of those skulls appeared human. Buckets outside the doorways to the larger buildings contained the blood warriors used to paint rank on their hands.

A rancid smell drifted from a pit in a corner of the village. Using binoculars, Jon saw that the trash there included the gnawed bones of humans who had lost their usefulness.

The useful humans remained locked inside a flimsy open-air pen constructed of wood posts and rope made from vines. Jon counted four ragged people but no sign of Sheila.

He counted eleven warriors armed with daggers and a kind of sword fashioned from branches. Racks of spears and caches of bows waited at various points around the camp.

Several young and old aliens wandered the grounds conversing in a rough alien tongue. Others skinned animals over open flames sending the scent of cooking flesh into the air. Two washed clothes with water from a wooden barrel, three more guarded the village perimeter.

Brewer positioned his fighters around the camp and waited for the right moment, then signaled the snipers. Several pops of gunfire shattered the peace. Sentries dropped and the remaining pale-skinned aliens scrambled for cover and weapons.

A full assault followed. Jon’s team constricted inward from the forest, blazing away with licks of brilliant fire spitting from high-powered rifles as if dragon’s breath.

The Red Hands did not shrink from gunfire. Jon realized they felt no fear of advanced weapons. Indeed, the presence of the modern weaponry angered the aliens. They charged forward with a religious fervor, as if believing their righteousness could overcome firepower.

One of Jon’s team-a bearded fellow who had ridden north with Stonewall-suffered an arrow in the leg. An enemy warrior hacked to death a dog with a hatchet. Nonetheless, the assault turned to victory as K9s tore at throats and bullets felled the Red Hands.

– When Trevor called for her to fly him in an Apache to the Red Hand camp, Nina did not refuse. She had already decided not to let him see how much his rejection bothered her.

The sun had disappeared behind the horizon but enough of its glimmer remained to keep night at bay for a short while longer. The Apache flew above the treetops, ascending and descending with the contour of the land.

Jon guided them to the camp via tactical radio. She landed the chopper in the middle of the dead village. Jon, his team, and a small group of freed, shell-shocked human slaves waited.

Nina followed Trevor from the Apache and walked behind as Brewer gave his report.

"This one was closer than we thought. From what the captives told us, there are three settlements farther north, but they’re spread out more. Not going to be easy to find."

The men stopped. Nina stopped with them. Jon pointed toward one of the smaller structures. Trevor turned to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you. You’re a hell of a soldier. I may not have-"

"Trev. It’s okay. Maybe now I have a chance to…to redeem myself."

"You already have. Now get ready to return to the estate. Your mission is over."

Jon turned around but Trevor continued forward. Nina hesitantly followed.

Trevor pushed aside the animal skin curtain at the entrance to one of the smaller dwellings. Remnants of a fire smoldered in the middle of the chamber, a hole in the roof allowed strands of lazy smoke to drift away. Sacks wove from plants hung on the walls serving as racks for weapons and tools. Next to the fire lay a wool blanket.

Trevor knelt on both knees and stared. Nina waited for him to speak, to tell her why they had come but she could think of nothing else to do other than kneel alongside him.

He pulled the blanket off the bruised and bloodied body of Sheila Evans, her eyes wide open but seeing nothing…nothing other than whatever pain and suffering she had endured the last hours of her life.

Nina had seen the face of death a thousand times since late June. Sheila’s face now became just another to join Sal’s and a parade of others.

Scott?

She turned to Trevor expecting he would be ready to go. He was not. His lips quivered. His eyes closed. He trembled.

"She just wanted to belong."

His chance at redemption… his chance to tell her she belonged…gone.

"I’m sorry, Sheila. I’m so sorry…"

Nina watched his misery pour forth. His grief took her by as much surprise as his cold tone had taken her at the meeting that morning. Could this possibly be the same person? So different the emotions. All in one person?

When we start killing again, I’ll call for you.

Stone sobbed alongside the body of Sheila Evans. As Nina watched, she stopped questioning why he acted this way. Instead, she questioned herself. She realized she should do something to comfort a fellow human being, but she did not know what. She didn’t know how.

Nina Forest envied him his remorse. She wondered how it felt.

Lori Brewer walked into the empty basement of the mansion. No one ever lurked in the basement in the mornings, making that a great time to return the DVD her and Jon had kept in their room the last few nights. She stuck it in the video cabinet: waaayyy in the back. As she did, a muscle in her upper leg ached.

Last time we take that DVD. Ouch.

She noticed the armory’s door ajar. Curious as usual, Lori peeked inside.

Nina Forest, dressed in her SWAT outfit with a green army jacket, strolled among the racks of weapons, her eyes glazed in a trance. She drifted a hand over the metal of the guns as if not sure they were real, like a child in a museum filled with wondrous but scary treasures.