Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

More men fell…and women…and kids who should have been in high school or college, not fighting and dying.

Shepherd saw first one, then a scattered few, then a dozen of his troops lose their stomach for battle. Some discarded their weapons and ran; others tried to sneak off.

"Hold your lines! Keep up your fire!"

Shepherd ran forward into the thick of it. Guns fired to his right and left. Alien shots buzzed his ear. One sliced through the shoulder of a bald black man armed with an antique hunting rifle. The man staggered and howled. Two army medics hauled him away.

Shep pulled a semi-automatic pistol, stepped on to a protruding tree root to gain a better view, aimed his pistol, and squeezed the trigger once, twice, thrice. One round pierced the hooded head of an alien, turning it into a lifeless mass.

He paused and surveyed his warriors.

The lawyers and sales reps and plumbers fought bravely but they could not match the skill of the highly trained extraterrestrial mercenaries. Nonetheless, he realized the Vikings hurled only a small portion of their force against the lines, perhaps more interested in gaining information than ground. At least for the time being.

Reverend Johnny ignited his flamethrower and waded into the chaos. A wall of fire caught and burned two of the enemy while sending another bunch fleeing.

"But as for these enemies of mine who did not want me to be king over them-bring them here and SLAUGHTER THEM IN MY PRESENCE!"

Shep did not know if Johnny’s flamethrower did the trick or if the Vikings had simply gleaned the knowledge they sought, but whatever the reason the attackers withdrew in an orderly fashion leaving twenty of their number dead in the field.

Reverend Johnny stood tall and shook his fist at the aliens as they left, shouting: "I will leave your FLESH on the mountains, and fill the valleys with your carcass. I will water the land with what flows from you, and the river beds shall be FILLED WITH YOUR BLOOD!"

Shepherd smiled because he knew the Reverend’s brave defiance would inspire the troops and, perhaps, keep others from deserting when the next assault came.

However, his smile faded as his eyes counted ten dead human bodies at the barricades.

A clap like thunder rolled across the mountaintop. That thunder-that explosion-rode in on a southward bound breeze tickling the treetops. The human defenders glanced around nervously, but to Shepherd’s ears that explosion sounded as sweet music.

– An hour after the detonation of the mall and the Roachbots lured therein, Trevor could still see a large plume of smoke on the horizon. He hoped Jon's plan had succeeded as designed, but more immediate issues held his attention.

The two men and their Humvee idled alongside a parked Eagle air ship. Behind them, the mass of surviving Grenadiers trotted southward along Route 11; they were not a part of Trevor's battle plan for the upcoming skirmish.

Ahead of them, the Red Hand army approached the northern side of the strip mall parking lot where the men, their Humvee, and the air ship waited.

"Trev…they’re here…man, we should get the hell out of here…"

"I want to hurt them a little more. Then we jump in the Eagle and fly south to meet up with the K9s. Relax."

Dante leaned out the driver's side window and glanced toward the sky saying, "I'd be more relaxed if those Apaches were back."

"Yeah, well, they're having problems with the fuel pump. We'll just have to make do."

The pale-skinned invaders surged from the road into the lot toward the men.

Trevor saw anger in their eyes: hatred. Trevor figured that hatred came in one part from the Red Hands’ disdain for all things technological but also from the frustration of having suffered so many casualties at the hands of so few.

Trevor added to their frustration.

He stood in the Humvee cupola and brought the fifty-caliber weapon to life again. The bullets sprayed in a continuous stream, crushing the enemy with speed and force; tearing off limbs, exploding skulls, cutting bodies in two.

It did not matter. The Red Hands kept coming.

Trevor fired again…but the weapon malfunctioned.

"God damn it! Damn it!"

"What? What!"

Trevor climbed from the vehicle and retrieved his M4.

"Overheated…something. It’s FUBAR, okay? Just start shooting!"

The two men lay prone on the pavement by the Eagle's landing pods.

Trevor took aim and squeezed the trigger easily. The recoil bounced the stock off his shoulder and an enemy fighter dropped. Then another. Another.

Dante gulped air and yanked the trigger in quick, excited bursts. The approaching mass stood in such tight ranks that he could not miss. One of his blasts hit an alien in the leg; the rushing mob trampled the wounded warrior.

The sky filled with arrows. Most hit the pavement ahead of Trevor and Dante, a handful bounced of the Eagle's nose cone and the Humvees hood. Not quite in range…

"Let’s go! Inside!"

They raced from cover and climbed the entry ramp. Arrows slammed into the bulkhead as it slid closed.

"What now?" Dante asked his question as the two men walked fast toward the cockpit of the ship. The sound of arrows banging off the hull reverberated through the interior.

"We fly over and get the K9s. Then we make another-"

The rain of arrows stopped.

The two men stood in the cockpit in surprised silence. A new sound started soft then grew loud: the thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades…the rumble of engines…the grating squeal of treads.

Trevor hurried to the pilot’s seat and activated the radio.

"Nina? Nina, is that you?"

"Look, I’m kinda busy, can’t talk right now. Oh yeah, I brought some company along."

A chorus sprung to life. The voices in that chorus included the heavy cannon of Bradley Fighting Vehicles, the chainsaw-like buzzing of helicopter cannons, the snap and pop of rifles.

Trevor slipped on the ship’s navigation goggles, affording him a view of the outside.

The infantry from Brewer’s relief force formed a protective perimeter around the Eagle while the armored vehicles and choppers rushed to encircle the Red Hand army.

With the Apaches flying overhead, the heavily armed ground troops engaged the spear-throwing, arrow-shooting primitives. The scene resembled scythes cutting fields of wheat.

Red Hand weapons bounced off armored plates. Human bullets fired without mercy, even when the aliens ran. In a few minutes, the blacktop of Route 11 grew heavy with dead aliens.

The tide of battle on the northern front changed, just as the trap at the mall had changed the eastern front. To the south, things looked much different.

– The Vikings attacked again, this time after dark aided by their own version of night vision equipment.

The enemy crossed the mountain field in full force with magnetic guns whirring and buzzing. Alien shrapnel grenades exploded in front of and behind barricades. Shepherd watched his defenders-already weary from a day of cutting, digging, and fighting-fall like broken matchsticks one after another. Their volleys of defensive fire felt weak and half-hearted, despite Reverend Johnny shouting refrain after refrain of inspiration.

The enemy reached the defensive lines. Rifles fired at point-blank range; knives and fists became weapons of desperation. The tree branches overhead trapped the smoke of spent cartridges, creating a surreal, smelly fog floating above the battle.

Shepherd called in Stonewall’s mounted soldiers to cover a retreat.

One hundred of the human fighters managed to disengage from the melee and fall back. They left behind the screams of dying comrades and pockets of doomed holdouts who failed to hear the call to evacuate.

Shep, at the rear of his running mob retreating through the darkness to the second mountain line, heard an alien victory yell from the top of the mountain he had just surrendered.