Armageddon?? (19 page)

The
tanks were backing up. Bass hadn’t received any orders but with his radio down,
it was a fair guess they were out so he joined in the movement. Like the other
tanks, he popped his smoke launchers, the choking white fumes driving off the
remaining harpies. By the time the baldricks swarmed over the positions he had
once held, the Challengers were back behind the next ridgeline.

Headquarters,
British Brigade, Wadi Al Jaram, Western Iraq

Brigadier
John Carlson looked at his map, his front line had been driven in, the tanks
and armored infantry pushed back to the next defense positions. That left the
baldricks spread out between the wire and the next defense line in a vast
disorganized mass. He picked up his radio, it was already set to the right
frequency. “Now, General Zolfaghari, now’s your time. Put every gun to them
Sir, every gun.”

“Getting
a bit Wellingtonian aren’t we?” The Iranian General’s voice was urbane and
slightly amused. Then his division spoke for him. Outside the sky to Carlson’s
left turned white as the massed batteries of Iranian BM-21 rocket launchers
opened fire, pouring their rockets into the baldrick’s flank and rear. Under
the white cloud was a black one as the T-72s gunned their engines and started
their charge at the enemy.

Third
Legion, Southern Flank, Abigor’s Army

The
onslaught was totally unexpected, the enemy were in retreat, covered by the fog
they had conjured up. Then, somehow, they had poured a new mass of fire into
the right flank and rear of the demon forces. Krykojanklawas looked over to the
left and saw the black cloud as something crossed the ridgeline. He focused his
eyes and almost screamed in horror at what he saw. “The humans have Iron
Chariots!”

He
wasn’t the only one. Others saw the more than 300 T-72 tanks pouring over the
ridgeline, moving terrifyingly fast through the sand. They saw them spit fire,
the blaze rippling along their front line as the shots went on their way to
tear into the demonic ranks. Every demon sensed the new chariots and knew the
truth. they were made of iron. Not just any iron but some sort of super iron.
The demons recoiled from their old enemy, it was just too much. After the
pounding, the mines, the wire, their nerve broke.

Headquarters
of Merafawlazes, Commander, Northern Flank, Abigor’s Army

Merafawlazes
had learned much about war in the last few hours. He had learned that cavalry
could no longer charge an enemy. He learned that artillery was the great killer
no matter whether the targets were demons or humans. He had learned that his
soldiers were helpless against tanks. He had learned that humans were the
supreme masters of mass killing and were only too keen to practice their art.
Now he learned that the moment an Army disintegrates and changes from a
defeated force to a panicked mob can be measured with exquisite precision. The
French Army at Waterloo disintegrated at precisely 8:15pm, the Union Army at
First Bull Run at precisely 4:20pm. Merafawlazes saw his army disintegrate with
exactly the same precision. As the great iron chariots of the humans emerged
from their hiding places, his army dissolved into chaos, running for the rear.
The Iron Chariots followed them and they could move much faster than even the
panic-stricken demons. That was when he had his next lesson. An Army suffers
heavier casualties when it breaks than it does when it stands.

M1A2
Abrams Charlie-Three, Tel Ash Sha’ir, Northern Iraq.

There
was thirty dead an' wounded on the ground we wouldn't keep --  No, there wasn't
more than twenty when the front begun to go;  But all along the line o' flight
they cut us up like sheep,  An' that was all we gained by doin' so.

The
M1 crested the ground smoothly, the great barrel of its gun held in place by
the stabilization system. There was hardly any need to use it, the baldricks
were running for the rear, the Abrams tanks spraying them with fire from their
coaxial and turret-top machine guns. In the driver’s seat, SPC Brungardt saw a
wounded baldrick fall to the ground in front of the racing tank. The 70 ton
Abrams didn’t even lurch as it drove over the body. Brungardt thumbed his
intercom button. “Hey guys guess what. Baldricks go crunch too.”

Chapter
Fourteen

Wadi
Abu Tahir, Western Iraq, late afternoon

Memnon
snorted in disgust as he watched the young human die. He stared into those
cow-like eyes as they fluttered and the hands feebly clawed at his infernal
flesh. He could feel the soul within stirring now as the meat caging it finally
ceased its life functions. He casually allowed the corpse the slide out of his
grip and he was quiet for a long moment, listening. The humans were about in
large numbers and he was no fool. His wings would take time to regenerate and
his flesh was still aching from his wounds. Their spears of plastic and metal
spat hot burning bolts that could wound even his great personage. This was not
the way it was to be. Go find them and challenge them, he was told. They will
cower before you. He had found the humans but their chariots of steel and
plastic were far too powerful for him. He had lost two wing mates already and
he was in no condition to meet them again. Not yet, anyway.

Memnon
smiled cruelly. When he did, there would be blood. Enough to drown a thousand
human infants, and then the pain would come. Sweet melodic pain. Memnon’s eyes
fluttered and the never born knew that it was time to rest. His prey had been
bested and he had claimed a lair for himself. At least long enough to heal the
wounds and allow his spirit flesh to sing to the domain he called home. This
wretched place of cloying life and limited matter was not to his liking. He was
his own being and he needed rest.

“Just
for a little while.” Memnon growled and curled down onto the floor next to the
corpse of the boy. He looked with contentment at the place that surrounded him
for sprawled out across the couch was an older woman, head turned completely
around and leering at him while a younger woman was impaled on a broken piece
of furniture, scream frozen on her face. All were small offerings to the
Morningstar and his Prince to watch over him in this moment of weakness. He
would repay them with more flesh and blood when he was whole again.

Wadi
Abu Tahir, Western Iraq, just before dawn

A
single eye snapped open at the sound of the tea pot whistle and Memnon spoke.
“For disturbing me in this moment of respite, you shall know such wonders of
pain, I will make a cathedral of your bones and sinew and your agony will be my
choir, pathetic human.” He snarled coldly at the young Arabic man who now
shared the high-roofed barn that was now his den. A man dressed in plain khakis
and a billowy white shirt opened at his chest who nodded politely to Memnon and
knelt cross legged across from him as he delicately poured himself a cup of
tea. The steam rose lazily from the ancient chipped porcelain. It had been
brewing on the stove and the smell wafted over to the groggy demon.

“Peace
and blessing be upon you, Fallen One. Your absence still saddens my patron.”

Memnon
paused. He stirred more now, unfurling like some obscene spider, long leathery
limbs reaching out as he rose with eyes like cold embers pinning the young man
with a predatory gaze. “Slave of the Nameless One.” Memnon inclined his head
with bitter sarcastic politeness as he smelled the clean scent of the Angelic.

“Care
for a cup?” the Angelic asked with a child like innocence as he sipped his own,
for a brief moment he closed his eyes and seemed to savor the tea like one
savored the sensation of forced coupling.

“You’re
all whores to your senses, you know that, don’t you?” Memnon chuckled darkly,
his cloven hooves clomping on the packed earth floor like a caged bull as he
paced back and forth before the kneeling man.

“This
world is delight and rapture. It is the fulfillment of all and the joy of
bliss.” The young man sighed as he inhaled the aroma from the tea cup.

Memnon
said nothing. They liked to talk, they liked to taste, they liked to savor,
these slaves of the Nameless.

“What
is the purpose of this world if not to delight in its wonders? You must
remember, surely, how bright it is in our Ethereal Realm. How the chorus of
praise and supplication a constant backdrop to the great one above us all as he
basks in our light of selfless devotion.” He continued in a soft whisper like
leaves on silk.

“What
manner of slave are you, eh? Cherub, perhaps?” Memnon asked silkily. How frail
he looked just sitting there, it stirred his predatory urges like a woman’s
breast called to a male. Memnon clomped forward a bit, talons gleaming
dangerously.

The
Angelic inclined his head and closed his eyes and listened to intently for a
moment, he looked absolutely beautiful, like a statue carved of perfect
alabaster, there was not a blemish on his skin and his body moved with a
sublime grace that would have made a human weep. Was it a wonder that these
bastards had their way with the women of this wretched place while his kin had
to forcibly take what they wanted? Was it any wonder they were always the ones
the Nameless sent in his stead to speak for him.

Always
put your best face forward they say. They were such supple and elegant heralds.
How could the humans resist worshipping the Nameless One when these were the
ones he sent in its name? If the humans could only see what they actually
worshipped, now that would be worth the price of admission, no?

“It
is so…quiet here.” The Angelic announced with tears welling in its eyes. “No
maddening chorus always haunting your every thought, no cries of baseless
devotion, no shrieks of joyous revelation. Just. Silence.” There was a sadness
there, deep and abiding.

Memnon
could stand it no longer, it maddened him to see this abject weakness paraded
before him. “Slave!” he roared.

There
was a rip and whirl of taloned hands and leathery limbs flashing forward and
the angelic merely raised his head as if offering his throat to his attacker
but it gestured with its hand and Memnon was catapulted off his feet and landed
in a heap against the far wall of the shack, shaking the entire frame to its
core.

The
angelic was off his feet and had crossed the room in a single stride in between
heart beats and he had a flawless alabaster hand wrapped around Memnon’s
throat. Without a grunt of effort, the Angelic hoisted the still stunned Harpy
off his feet and held him high above him. The eyes were no longer human but
white within white and there was a low sound growing around him like a chorus
of women slowly building up tempo.

“I
am Appoloin, servant to Gabriel-Lan, Seraph of the Hosts of Michael-Lan, Devout
Servant and Herald of He Above All Others. You will listen to my words and heed
them.”

“I…listen.”
Memnon managed to choke out.

“Are
you certain?” Appoloin asked tightly and there was a cold smile on his face.
Oh, yes they were beautiful, but they were also terrible in their wrath. These
humans worshipped the Nameless with such zeal and spoke of his Perfect Love
never really discussing that when the time came for punishment it was these
beautiful angels that delivered death and destruction without hesitation or
remorse. In the end, human morality was just as alien to this beautiful
creature as it was to Memnon.

“Yes,
Appoloin. I attend your words.” Memnon stammered.

“We
are watching. Tell your prince that. The One Above All has spoken yet he sees
vile repugnant defiance from humanity. The Great Chorus must not be disturbed.
The Chanting must not cease. Your ilk were given this world and we see nothing
but abhorrent failure. We do not want to take a more active role. Uriel awaits
on the ether like a sword of Damocles.”

“Uriel?!”
Memnon exclaimed.

“Last
he moved upon man, the Land of Khemet wept bitter tears. Do not force our hand.
Cow them. Stop the defiance. Should they find a way to disrupt the Chorus we
will end this charade once and for all.” Gabriel jerked Memnon down to face
him, tusk to nose.

“Clear,
foul one?” Appoloin replied like ice and hurled the Never Born back through the
wall of the shack. Corrugated tin and sheet rock gave way and Memnon found
himself running before he even realized he was touching ground again.

“Peace
be with you.” Appoloin whispered into the dawn wind and calmly sat back down to
enjoy his tea.

He
was disturbed in his tranquility by a roar and a clattering noise that shook
dust from the ceiling of the hut and spoiled his tea. Dawn had still only half
arrived but standing at the door, he could see a hulking brute made of square
boxes sitting in the road. Two more of the same were behind it and three
smaller brutes. Appoloin looked more carefully, there were twenty thin black
rings painted around the long tube that stuck out of the upper box. The there
was a squeaking noise and something opened from the top. At first Appoloin
thought it was one of the foul ones but then he saw it was a human. With his
eye for beauty, he saw her as comely, and buxom even by the standards of the
daughters of Ham.

Lieutenant
Keisha “Hooters” Stevenson didn’t feel comely. She was gray with exhaustion,
her hair under her communications helmet was matted and her scalp stinging with
sweat. She and the crew of Alpha-One-One had been on the move all night, at
first chasing down the fleeing remnants of the northern army. Later, they’d
split away and were now swinging west and south across the rear of the Baldrick
army. If it had been a human force, there would have been supply columns to
devastate and rear area units to destroy but here there was nothing. Until
they’d come to this tiny village. Here, they had to wait until the great ships
of the desert, the Oshkosh Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Trucks, could catch
up with them and bring them new supplies of fuel for the greedy gas turbines
and ammunition for their guns. Although Stevenson thought, they didn’t need
ammunition for all their kills. The roadwheels and bellies of the Abrams and
Bradleys were stained green and yellow with baldrick blood. It was a dirty
little secret of armored warfare that tanks killed infantry with their tracks
just as often as they did with their guns.