Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

Night fell. The Redcoats remained entrenched in their positions downtown, but prying human eyes saw gear being packed, equipment stowed, and lazy perimeter patrols.

Stonewall radioed Shepherd to share his guess that the Redcoats had swallowed their pride and would pull out come morning.

Too late.

The stars and a not-quite-full moon shined down upon a badly mauled Redcoat army entrenched downtown and constantly harassed by predators.

Perhaps the aliens felt they had accomplished something: several square blocks of city had been leveled and no human mortars, cavalry, or snipers threatened since the bombardment.

Victory or not, the Redcoats stowed gear, secured checkpoints, and shortened patrols in preparation for withdrawing at first light.

Jon Brewer's voice transmitted to Shepherd who somehow managed to stay awake and alert at his post in the brewery building: "Okay Shep, Omar made it to us. We're ready to go."

Trevor's voice joined the radio traffic: "Good. Shep, run it down one last time before we dive in. Every one has got to know where the pieces are."

Shep eyed the brightly-lit parking lot between two big-box stores where the Redcoats camped. A dark void filled the gap between his position and the alien HQ.

"Okay, listen up. All four of their regiments are downtown; you know that or we wouldn't be having this conversation. Forgetin’ their checkpoints for now, that leaves their General and his staff with security and a lot of wounded."

Brewer radioed, "How many do you think are up there?"

"Combat effective? About twenty between officers, security, and the gun crews but not including the checkpoints or their air ships."

After a burst of static Trevor said, "If the checkpoints get in on this then things won't go well. As for the air ships, I don't think they're armed. Can their wounded fight? How many?"

Shep clicked on a pen light and checked a pad where he kept notes.

"Between yesterday and today I saw about fifty carried into the stores. I don't know how many of them are still breathing but I haven't seen them come out. Most of their walking wounded are still with their regiments and weren't evacuated up this way."

Jon said, "This is it, then."

Trevor radioed, "Jon, are you good to go? Are you sure?"

His reply: "Are you two? Once we get ahold of the AA guns it's all on you."

"Yeah," Trevor answered, "But if you don't get them we won't last ten seconds."

Shep suffered a long yawn, a symptom of sitting for two days in a cold, dusty old building. He felt the tickle of a sore throat and a touch of stuffiness in his nose. He only hoped it would be a common cold and not some strange alien flu.

He said, "Seems to me things have broke our way better than we could have hoped, so we either ride our hot streak and finish the job, or turn tail and call ourselves lucky."

Jon Brewer transmitted, "Guess I'll get started. Hope to see you again soon. If I don't, well, it's been a pleasure."

The radio went silent; nothing remained to say.

Shepherd settled against the window and enjoyed his front row seat for the show.

– Proven fighters comprised most of Jon Brewer's strike team.

Danny Washburn could handle a gun thanks to government training. Whiskey-despite his age-proved himself during the assault on The Order's base. Ames-the fiery brunette-not only fought bravely during the Allentown expedition but did so wearing a splint on her broken arm (which she still wore). Tolbert was not only physically impressive but had performed well as a rear guard during the extraction from The Order's base.

Two members of his team did not have combat experience: Omar, who would hang back to avoid the fighting anyway, and Lori Brewer, Jon's wife.

She insisted she would not allow her husband to commit suicide alone and claimed her shooting skills-thanks to Nina’s tutelage-had improved.

Jon, reluctantly, included her. However, the mission began a half-hour late because Lori succumbed to a bout of nausea.

Ten Grenadiers-a mix of Rottweilers and Dobermans-rounded out the group.

At 2:30 a.m., they emerged from hiding and followed the plan of movement first conceived by Trevor: the hidden paths cut through Northeastern Pennsylvania by railroad companies. Decades ago, those tracks hauled coal out of the valley and supplies in to the anthracite mines. They crisscrossed through the area like a network of above-ground tunnels.

Jon led them through the pitch-black night surrounded by strange noises and watching eyes. They crossed the Susquehanna on a thin train trestle then through patches of woodland, alongside a stream, and across the boulevard fifty yards from Jerry Shepherd's observation post.

Their stealthy approach benefited from the Redcoats’ decision to park four of their five flying ships for the night. Jon guessed they lacked fuel or perhaps this was another symptom of the aliens' lack of night fighting experience.

After crossing the boulevard, the railroad tracks disappeared into a thick patch of dying brush and trees. The cover allowed them to slip directly beneath the Redcoats’ collective noses; so close, they could hear the undecipherable conversations of sentries.

Nerves and the need for stealth stretched the relatively short trip-a little over a mile- to a ninety-minute creep through a dark nightmare. Nonetheless, they avoided detection.

Jon balanced his M4 rifle against a tree stump, wiped cold sweat off his forehead, and surveyed his unit. For a moment, he worried their frosted exhales might give away their position.

Washburn gripped his own M4 tight and flashed a nervous grin.

Reverend Johnny-who kept watch on things at the estate-had loaned his flamethrower to Tolbert. The sturdy man labored to catch his breath after having hauled the bulky contraption for an hour and a half of walking, jogging, running, and hiding.

Ames, who carried one of the platypus plasma rifles, fell on her rump and held a free hand to her chest as if feeling for a heart beat. Whiskey fiddled with the canvass bag full of ping-pong ball grenades slung over his shoulder. He also carried a nine-millimeter handgun.

Jon’s wife tried hard to appear at ease but the. 44 Desert Eagle pistol she carried trembled in her grasp.

As for Omar, his handgun remained holstered and an unlit cigarette hung from his mouth.

Meanwhile, the stoic and dependable K9s waited on their haunches as if wondering why the group paused.

Jon breathed deep and pointed a small flashlight to the west: toward the brewery. He flashed twice and knew the signal would activate the last piece of the puzzle. In a few seconds, Trevor and Nina would pull the camouflage netting off the Apache hidden on the 16 ^ th hole of the municipal golf course.

Jon, despite the fluttering tickle of fright swirling in his belly, gave his people a thumb up. He locked eyes on Lori and mouthed the words I love you.

She kissed him quick then drove a fist of encouragement into his arm, as if to say ‘let’s go get them’ but her wide eyes and quivering lips could not hide her fear.

The group, except for Omar, exited the brush and quietly climbed the grassy slope toward the parking lot. To Jon’s ears, every brushed blade of dead grass, every pebble knocked loose, every breath sounded as loud as gunshots.

He remained focused on the guardrail at the top of the slope that marked the rim of the lot, fearing the appearance of a curious sentry.

Jon reached the guardrail first, crouched, and peered over. Twenty yards away hovered the first of the four artillery pieces. Further along-another fifteen yards or so-sat one of the all-important anti-aircraft guns.

The crews were not with their weapons; the alien gunners huddled along the sides of the old stores. They appeared cold, bored, and tired.