5 Onslaught (17 page)

A
dog barks, spinning us around.
A large black Newfoundland
charges toward Mira.
She drops to a knee and greets the now whining dog.

“This
must be Vesuvius,” I say, crouching next to the massive canine. He eyes me
cautiously, but I hold my hand to his nose and let him get a good sniff. After a
moment, he lowers his head and slides it under my hand: permission to pet,
granted. I scratch behind his ears with both hands, saying, “You’re a good
boy.” This outside world tradition of greeting friendly dogs with expressions
of how good they are feels oddly normal.
Feels good.

I
spot the Jericho shofar atop a desk that is bolted to the stone floor. It’s
wedged in a large chunk of foam and covered by a clear case that’s hinged to
the back side of the desk and locked on the front, like it’s some kind of museum
exhibit, which it might actually be some day.

Merrill
notes my attention. “It’s the best we could do to protect it and still have it
available.”

I
nod.
Makes sense.
But what I’m confused about is the
next table over. I give Vesuvius one last scratch and stand. I move to the
table, which is covered in what looks like stereo equipment. Several thick
cables run down to the floor and out through the hallways. “What’s this?”

“The
ancient Israelites had several horns and had to sound them over several days
for the impact to be significant.” Merrill grins. “We have a speaker system
pillaged from an aircraft carrier.” He points out a microphone. “This is my
station.
My contribution to the war effort, if you will.
I’ve been practicing with the shofar. It’s not pretty, but the effect should be
impressive.”

“Is
the effect the same through the speakers?” I ask.

“I,
uh, I don’t know,” he says.

“We
haven’t found a red head to try it on,” Holloway adds.

“A red head?”
I ask.

“It’s
what they call the Nephilim and hunters,” Merrill explains.

“Then
I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” I say.

We
spend the following three hours beneath the temple, developing contingency
plans to any number of unthinkable situations. As each plan is documented, it
is given a name, and then transmitted into the minds of every soldier by Luca.
If he gives the command for contingency Red Bravo, every man on the ground,
pilot in the air and captain at sea will know what to do.

With
everyone as prepared as they possibly could be, Holloway orders us all to get
some rest. Apparently, he was joking when he said I looked like I’d been on
vacation, and a few hours sleep, according to him, would work wonders. When I
argue that he should rest too, he points out that he’d be spending the
following day shouting orders, not fighting thirty-foot tall monsters. So I
give in and I’m directed to my personal quarters, which is a sturdy looking
tent covered in gray camouflage.

When
I enter, I find Kainda already there, waiting in one of two cots that have been
pushed together. There might be other items of interest inside the tent, but I
don’t see them. My eyes don’t stray from Kainda.

“I
thought outsiders were pre-occupied with comfort,” Kainda says. “These could
use a few feeder skins.”

“Huh?”
I say, focusing my thoughts for the first time since laying eyes on her.
Despite all I’ve been through, all the enemies I’ve faced and horrors I’ve
endured, my nerves churn violently through my gut. This is my wedding night,
after all. Kainda smiles up at me and erases all my fears. I remove Whipsnap
and my ancient looking Batman-like utility belt,
lying
them next to the bed where they can be quickly recovered. I climb in bed next
to Kainda, pull the blanket over
me,
place my hand on
her cheek, and say, “I love you.”

She
rubs her hand through my hair—just once—and I’m asleep before she has a chance
to reply.

27

“Solomon!”
My name, shouted in a way that exudes desperation and encroaching danger,
launches me from the cot. Confused by the dull gray space around me, I stumble
and trip over Whipsnap, falling to the floor in a heap. As adrenaline fuels the
return of my memory, I look up to find the cot empty. Kainda has gone.

Hearing
footsteps rapidly approaching, I climb to my feet, pick up my belt and weapon
and strap them on just in time to look
put
together
for whoever it is coming to get me.

The
tent flap snaps open. It’s Em, who is one of the few people I wouldn’t mind
seeing me sprawled out on the floor. She’s seen me at my worst and never
thought less of me. Not that she would have noticed. Her eyes are full of
concern.

It’s begun,
I think.

Em
confirms it, saying, “They’re here.”

“What
time is it?” I wonder aloud.

“The
sun is just rising now.”

They made good time.

“Take
me to Holloway.”

She
nods and leads me out. “He’s at the wall.”

Men
and women rush in all directions, hauling weapons and ammo, taking up positions
all around the camp, watching the distance and the sky. We work our way through
the bustle, past the side of the temple and toward the front of the base. As we
approach an ancient staircase carved into a massive stone, I spot Luca by its
base.

“What
are you doing out here?” Em asks him. “Get back inside!”

“I
needed to tell Sol something,” the boy says, looking at me.

I
kneel down to him and take his arms. “What is it?”

I’m
expecting a “good luck,” or a “goodbye” or even just a hug, but he levels a
serious gaze at me and says. “This is how it’s going to work. Think your orders
to me, and I’ll send them to everyone else. We’ll try to use the plans as much
as possible—” Luca and I share the same perfect memory. We’ll be able to change
tactics with a thought. “But there might be some things we haven’t thought of.
If something comes up, like if you need everyone to focus on a target, just think
it. I’ll be listening.”

Talking
to Luca is surreal. He not only looks like me, but he’s smart like I was, and
for the first time in my life, I can see why people thought I was strange. He
seems far too young to be thinking in such detail or with such clarity. It’s a
gift, I suppose, if you’re emotionally tough enough to deal with all that
knowledge and the understanding that comes with it. I never was, but Luca seems
to be handling his responsibilities just fine.

Then
comes
the hug and a quick, “goodbye.” I watch him run
for the temple for just a moment before heading up the stairs with Em. At the
top of the wall, I find Holloway, Kainda, Kat and Mira, who now holds a
dangerous looking assault rifle. She’s wearing body armor and a scowl to boot.
When she sees me coming, I say, “Nice gun.”

“XM29,”
she says. “Wright taught me how to use it and trust
me,
you don’t want to be on the receiving end of its explosive rounds.”

Holloway
turns at the sound of my voice. As I step up between
he
and Kainda, she takes my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before returning to
her vigil. Holloway motions toward the battlefield. “Have a look.”

I
turn forward, seeing the lines of tanks, which have expanded overnight, the
trenches full of men, now aiming their weapons toward the distant jungle, the
rows of razor wire and the mine field beyond. After that, I see trees and a
distant gap where the two cliffs almost come together. But I don’t see any
Nephilim.

“Base
of the trees,” Holloway says.

“Looks
like a lot of shadow,” I say.

“They
are
the shadows.” He hands a pair of
binoculars to me, but I dig into my pack and take out the spyglass that Ninnis
gave to me so long ago. I raise the telescope to my eye and focus on the
distant trees. When I see them, I flinch. They’re nearly invisible, covered in
mud, but their white eyes almost glow in the morning sun now rising behind us.

“Berserkers,”
I whisper.

“Those
are the people who are lost, right?” Holloway asks. “Not like the hunters who
can be—whatever the word is.”

“Redeemed,”
I offer.

“Right,”
he says.

“But
we can try,” I say. “We have to try.”

“And
if it doesn’t work?” he asks. “What then?”

The
answer hurts too much to say aloud, so my response is to look down at the line
of tanks. I can hear the hum of their engines.

“Right,”
Holloway says.

“I
don’t see any Nephilim,” I say.

“They’re
still an hour out,” he says. “These guys were hard to spot.
Didn’t
even know they were there until the sun came up.”

“How
many of them are there?” I ask.

He
shrugs. “No way to know for sure. Several thousand at least, but the canopy
blocks our view from above.”

As it blocked my view from the nunatuk.
With the number of berserkers unknown,
we have to assume the worst. If this is the Nephilim’s opening salvo, then they
must believe the berserkers are a real threat, which means there must be a
massive number of men waiting in those trees.

Merrill, are you ready?
I think, directing the question to
Luca.

Almost,
comes
the
reply from Merrill. The voice is in my head, and sounds like Luca, but
something about it, like a signature, says the thought originated from Merrill.

A
hiss of static fills the air, follow by the booming fumbling of a microphone
and a whispered, “Sorry. Sorry.”
Then, in my head.
Ready.

Stand by,
I think.

“How
do you do it, General?” I ask Holloway. “How do you condemn men to death?”

“We’re
not condemning them to death, son,” he says. “We’re merely providing the means.
They’re doing all the condemning themselves.”

I
suppose that makes sense, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m the one
giving the order. Still, we’re doing everything we can.

Go ahead, Merrill,
I think.

The
speakers are so loud and the microphone so sensitive, that we can hear Merrill
take a breath. And then, he blows. The shofar isn’t exactly a pleasant
instrument to listen to, but Merrill manages to get a robust sound out of the
thing. It’s so loud that I can feel my insides shaking. Several of the men
below, put their hands to their ears. And then the effect kicks in. No one here
is directly under Nephilim corruption, but neither is anyone here completely
pure. The sound moves through me. Its effect feels something like Christmas
morning as a child—magical and peaceful.

The
horn sounds for a full thirty seconds before Merrill lets up.

Then
we wait.

If
the horn has had any effect on the berserkers, we should see them acting
strangely.
Confused.
Perhaps
remembering their old selves.
Wandering about.
But as I watch through my telescope, I see none of these things, just
agitation. Then one of the
berserkers
dashes forward
and stops in the sunlight. He’s a hairy man, covered in mud from head to toe,
so much so that his blood-red hair is hard to see, but its there, corrupt as
ever. The berserkers truly are lost.

The
man pumps his fists in the air and screams wildly. When he’s done,
a chorus of voices join
in, sending a sound wave of hate and
madness over the base that quickly erases the lingering effects of the shofar.

And
then, they charge.

The
man in front makes it just twenty feet before stepping on a land mine. Then,
he’s just gone, a mist of a person that the next berserker runs through without
pausing, before joining the first in a similar fate.

The
flow of berserkers looks like a living black river of mud, flowing from the
jungle. They scream in rage, blind to danger, oblivious to anything but a lust
for carnage.

But
then, among the black horde are specks of white, shorter, wider and bobbing
back and forth as they run. I scan the now salt and pepper colored force and
focus on one of the white bodies. It’s a feeder. Its large black eyes are
emotionless, but
its
massive, shark-like jaws snap
open and closed, like it’s excited or ravenously hungry. Both are probably
true. In some ways, feeders are comical in appearance, but I know from experience
that they are savage and deadly, and from the looks of it, there are just as
many of them as there are berserkers. Together, they’re a dangerous mix.

But
we’re prepared for this.

Hold your fire.
The order goes from Holloway to Luca
and then to our multilingual army. For a moment, I wonder if I should have
given the order, but then realize I already did, to Holloway himself. He’s just
carrying it out.

The
half-mile long mine field does its dirty work. Thousands of berserkers and
feeders meet with abrupt and explosive ends. The shock wave from each explosion
tears through me, cutting deeply as another human being meets his end. Sure,
many are feeders, whose deaths I will never mourn, but too many are people, who
are only here because they were kidnapped and broken beyond repair. I have to
force myself to remain stoic. Kat notices my stiff upper lip and gives me a
nod. This is what the men need to see. But is this bravery? Is this confidence?

War
is a stranger to me.

Despite
the field of carnage and the overwhelming death toll, the berserkers and
feeders keep coming.

“How
many are there?” I hear someone ask. I don’t know who it was, but I hear
anguish in the question. No one here wants to kill people. But then it gets
worse. The last of the mines detonates and the field is clear all the way to
the razor wire.

Pick your targets,
Holloway orders.
Blue Alpha.

Blue
Alpha is one of the most basic plans. Infantry takes the near ground. Snipers
take the middle ground. Artillery and tanks level the jungle.

The
tank cannons whir, rising up to fire a ranged attack.

This is it,
I think with a sour stomach.

Holloway’s
next thought comes through loud and clear.
Fire!

The
small-arms fire comes first, popping steadily, but then frantically. Men in the
trenches fire first, then more from the walls on either side of me. The
staccato pop of automatic gunfire is then accentuated with a less rapid, but
far louder crack of sniper rifles. Each shot makes me jump, in part because of
the volume, but also because half of the sharp retorts result in the killing of
another human being.

But
all of the gunfire is suddenly drowned out by a wave of thunder that shakes the
ancient walls so hard I fear they might collapse. More than a hundred tanks
open fire, leveling the distant jungle along with the men and monsters still
pouring out from between the trees. The artillery behind the base fires next,
further decimating the enemy ranks.

The
enemy numbers are so high that despite all of this power and technology, a few
of the berserkers and feeders make it as far as the razor wire. But they make
it no further as they become hopelessly tangled, like flies in a spider’s web.

The
next fifteen minutes is a nauseating blur of uproarious violence that shakes
the ground, and my core. And then, the flow of berserkers finally slows. The
feeders taper off too, leaving just a few random individuals bumbling clumsily
over the dead. The tanks hold their fire. The artillery ceases, too. And then,
as there are no enemies within range, those with assault rifles pause to reload
and catch their breath. Only the snipers are still firing. But even they soon
slow until there is a single sniper tracking the motion of a single berserker.
He’s screaming, gnashing his teeth, and charging as though his army still existed
and victory was assured.

The
sniper pulls the trigger, making me jump, and the last man falls.

Silence
sweeps over the base.

There’s
no cheering or congratulations or even relief. Instead, there is moaning.
Cries of pain.
Weeping.
All of it
from the battlefield full of the dead and dying.

With
a quiver in my voice, I turn to Holloway. “Is there anything we can do for
them?”

He
purses his lips and shakes his head. “You can pray for them.”

When
he walks away, head to the ground, I realize the true nature of this attack.
The berserkers were never meant to cause us physical harm. Their role was to
demoralize us, to make us despair and grieve.

A
high pitched wail rises up from the razor wire. A man suddenly lurches forward,
pulling himself free and tearing his flesh only to become even more entangled
when he tries to force his way through. He shouts madly, rage and confused pain
lancing out from his raw throat. A single shot is fired, putting the man out of
his misery.