Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

Rifle fire joined the chorus of growls and screams and thumping helicopter blades. Dante saw Trevor, standing away from the melee along the riverbank, raise his M4 and seek targets.

Dante pointed his rifle toward the battle…and stopped. He knew he should fire, but the sight below…gruesome: less a fight and more a slaughter. Indeed, the thought of shooting his bullets at the already doomed Red Hands felt wrong; like piling on a beaten foe.

He watched a group of a six Red Hands muster together, beat back the bites of K9s, then race toward the bridge in a desperate attempt to rejoin their army on the far side. They halted in the face of the Apaches then splintered and bolted in assorted directions. Several descended the banks toward the river; others ran for side streets.

Dante watched Trevor bark orders at his army. Small groups of K9s peeled away from the main battle to pursue the fleeing aliens. A dozen Shepherds bound over the riverbank; another ten Rotties hurried off along the side streets; a trio of massive wolfhounds cornered one Red Hand on the steps of a church and tore away the extraterrestrial's limbs.

Dante realized Trevor would allow no survivors. He planned complete extermination.

The scene below him changed from a mass battle to isolated fights to an eerie stillness around a pile of alien and canine bodies. The barking and beating faded, replaced by dying moans drifting on the breeze.

Dante sat in the window staring at the horror below. He had never seen such a bloodbath. His mouth hung open and his heart raced.

Not Trevor, though. His old friend walked calmly amidst the slaughtered with his rifle ready to snuff any lingering life.

A radio transmission from Nina shook Dante from his trance.

"Hey, we’re bingo on fuel, gotta bug out."

Both of the helicopters hurried off on their way to the refueling station established miles south at the Luzerne County Courthouse.

Dante’s eyes settled on the far bank of the Susquehanna. He knew many more of the Red Hand aliens waited over there. He desperately wished they would change their minds and withdraw, both for his life and for his desire to avoid witnessing such carnage again.

Dante squeezed his eyes shut. Trevor’s voice-a shout from below-pulled them open.

"This is beautiful, man. Beautiful!"

Trevor Stone walked among the corpses, smiling.

– Shep stood at the command vehicle and held the walkie-talkie close to his ear.

"I say, Mr. Shepherd, bring your guns to bear for the first rows of the devil’s legions are approaching on the Interstate for all to see."

Shep translated Reverend-speak and concluded Johnny could see a forward formation of Viking fighters from his position atop the first mountain.

"Um…okay, Rev, you hang on and we’ll drop a little something on your visitors."

Two of the silver, upside-down-bowl-shaped artillery pieces taken from the Redcoats last winter hovered on the black top as part of the rear assembly area that included Shep’s command vehicle. Rhodes stood fifty yards away near a parked Trailblazer along the side of Interstate 81 where he helped two men unload supplies.

"Rhodes! Hey! Get them guns goin’; we need to hit the first mark!"

Rhodes nodded and jogged away from the men unloading supplies, across the road, and to the Redcoat artillery. The gun crews-two teenage boys, an old lady, and a chubby middle-aged woman-followed Rhodes’ orders.

Barrels sprouted from the otherwise smooth domes of the pieces. The mobile guns swiveled left then right; the barrels rose another degree, and the first volley of blue pulses launched with an electric buzz.

Shep watched the projectiles lob over the mountain and disappear on the far side. A second later, he heard a distant shudder as the bolts found their mark.

"Well done, General Shepherd," the Reverend’s voice congratulated success. "You hit the bulls eye. The fiends are scattering and withdrawing from whence they came."

Another pair of shots blasted forth. More distant shudders.

The sharp, unmistakable crack of gunfire echoed from the mountain.

Shep radioed, "Rev, what’s going on up there?"

"Hold, Mr. Shep-NO on your RIGHT! Are you blind? THERE!"

The transmission went silent but the sound of a distant firefight intensified.

"Reverend. Report. Now."

The pop of grenade explosions joined the crackle of gunfire.

Johnny finally answered his radio, "Skirmishers, my dear Mr. Shepherd, coming up through the woods. Apparently, the ones on the highway were not alone. Curses! On your LEFT! Mortar teams, fire!"

Shepherd gazed at the rolling mountains to the south.

Thwoop…BOOM.

Thwoop…BOOM.

Reverend Johnny reported, "Blasted trees! It seems the thick cover of the forest is diluting the effectiveness of our mortars. However, we have beaten back the devils. I believe it was merely a probe along our lines, Mr. Shepherd. However, I-wait a moment. What is that?"

While the crack of gunfire subsided, a new sound descended upon the rear area. A sort of chopping noise, as if they air vibrated.

Reverend Johnny broadcast: "General Shepherd, I fear our friends do have a trick up their sleeve. Some kind of catapults…"

A red ball arched over the mountain directly toward Shepherd’s muster zone. He realized in that instant that the ‘Vikings’ knew a great deal about counter-battery fire.

"Oh…shit…INCOMING!"

The first shot hit the highway next to the men unloading supplies from the Trailblazer. It erupted not with sound but with quiet: almost anti-noise, Shepherd thought.

In the first split-second, a round flash of red caused a tremor that knocked the men to the ground and rocked the Trailblazer, but no shrapnel, only a glowing red sparkle hovering in the air above the impact zone.

In the next split-second, that red sparkle sucked everything within the zone of effect into itself, yanking the two screaming men into the air and toward the red singularity. The Trailblazer SUV tumbled horizontally side over side.

The men…the truck…chunks of highway concrete…made contact with the red sparkle and disintegrated before the singularity collapsed.

That chopping sounded again from over the hilltop.

"Fall back! Fall back!"

The artillery crews followed Shep’s order immediately, abandoning the guns and hurrying away. Shep raced to the driver’s wheel of the RV, turned the ignition key, and slammed the transmission into reverse.

Another red ball hit the highway, tearing away rocks and dust and sucking it all to its deadly center like a tiny black hole.

The men ran; their artillery silenced.

– The first wave of ‘Roachbots’ arrived at the bottom of the hill.

The odd machines walked in an unsure gait, as if using new legs. Each sported a faceplate with eyes resembling thin horizontal LED displays positioned above a rectangular speaker.

Jon Brewer watched through field glasses as the robotic nightmares started to cross the long straightaway his position overlooked.

The van-sized bots made a mechanical whirring as their six legs worked. Jon thought they resembled more a child’s wind up toy than some kind of sophisticated artificial intelligence. Indeed, he half expected them to get stuck against the cars parked along their path.

Still, the guns mounted on the sides of the robots’ faceplates appeared dangerous enough.

Jon held his hand aloft.

"Wait…on number five and seven…"

The lead row of robots stumbled around an old Chevrolet Camaro and a Toyota Camry.

Brewer dropped his hand, shouting, "Now! Five and seven!"

Boylen worked the demolition array. The Camaro and the Camry exploded. The concussion blasted two of the robots into halves. Sheet metal shrapnel from the cars tore the faceplate off a third; it wandered off, blinded.