Beyond Armageddon: Book 03 - Parallels (8 page)

            "No father! Don’t turn the page! Don’t turn the page!"

            Trevor, surprised, asked, ""What’s wrong buddy? We've read this a dozen times."

            JB visibly trembled and cried, "There’s a monster, father! There’s a monster!"

"Hey, easy does it, look, it’s not really a monster…"

            Trevor turned to the last page where Grover stood alone and realizes—to his embarrassment—that the 'monster' at the end of the book is lovable, furry Grover himself.

"See, it's only Grover. He was the only monster in the book all along."

            Unconvinced, JB snorted, "Grover turned out to
be
a monster. I don't like that book. I don't ever want to read it again."

            Trevor decided not to fight the battle. "Well, next time we’ll read
Green Eggs and Ham
. But I have to go out to see the troops for a couple of days. Maybe mommy can read it to you."

            Trevor scooted off the bed and pulled the covers to his son’s chin. Then, as per their ritual, he took JB's stuffed bunny and wrapped it in a tiny blanket.

            "Snug as a bug in a rug," dad handed the wrapped bunny to his boy and then planted a kiss on JB’s forehead.

            "Father, could you promise me that while you’re gone you’ll think of me every day."

            "Oh, Jorge, I think of you every day anyway. You know that. But yes, I promise."

            "Good," JB sounded satisfied but did not look it. "That way I know you won’t forget me."

---

Trevor gave his map with the push pins one last look over. He wondered if the Old Man possessed a similar map. Maybe Trevor played the role of a red or blue push pin. How many other pins did the Old Man have on his map?

            He shook away those thoughts, slung a heavy duffle bag over his shoulder, and left his office for downstairs.

First light struggled to rise over the mountain wall surrounding the lake, meaning that most of the support staff working at the mansion had not yet begun their day. Nonetheless, he heard Lori Brewer typing away on her computer. That did not surprise him. Between raising a daughter, keeping her husband in line, and serving as "Chief Administrator" Lori always had something to do.

He decided not to disturb her; she had a tendency to see through his words so even a simple "goodbye" might open the door for more questions than he wished to answer. Yet while he managed to slip quietly by her office, he found the front door blocked by her husband--Jon Brewer—waiting in ambush.

            "Where are you going?"

"Just running an errand," Trevor answered.

            "Bull shit. I know where you’re going."

            "Well then why are you asking stupid questions?"

            Jon shot back, "You’re the one acting stupid."

            "I’m in charge; I’m allowed to be stupid. A fringe benefit of the job."

            Trevor stepped around his tall friend and exited the front door. Snowflakes drifting in frigid morning air greeted him as he crossed the yard to the shuttle idling on the landing pad.

"You are an important symbol, Trev. If something happens to you, it could all fall apart."

            "Right. You’d have to find someone else to push those pins around."

            "What?"

            "Never mind."

            Jon implored, "You can’t go running off like this. You need to be in that office."
            Trevor stopped and turned to face his friend. Something bubbled in his expression; some contorted combination of anger and fear.

            "I never asked to be a symbol. I don’t want to be some god damn statue sitting behind a desk giving orders to people a thousand miles away. I need to be out
there
. I need to see the smoke from the guns again and the suffering and the courage."

            "Why?"

            "Because it doesn’t mean anything anymore! It’s just numbers and charts and reports! But when I found out Nina was missing….I mean, I can’t just let
her
be another number; another name. I have to do this Jon. I’m
going
to do this."

            Trevor walked quickly toward the landing pad as if trying to escape his friend but slowed when he saw two familiar faces waiting for him there: Jerry Shepherd and Reverend Johnny. They carried duffel bags as well.

            A drone came from the Eagle airship's idling engines as Trevor met his surprise visitors at the boarding ramp. Shepherd spoke before Trevor could say a word.

"Don’t you go telling me that I can’t go along on this. You damn well know you can’t stop me. So if you’re going to do something stupid like chasing after her then I’m all in."

            Trevor knew he could not debate Jerry Shepherd. Certainly not when it came to this. Moreover, Army Group Center had stopped its advance to focus on Hunter-Killer operations, nothing Stonewall could not handle on his own for a while.

            He nodded his head and then turned to Reverend Johnny who said, "Praise the Lord, I love an adventure. Besides, it has been suggested to me that you could use another pair of eyes with which to see."

            Neither man waited for Stone's answer. Instead, they grabbed their gear and boarded.

            Trevor turned to Jon and told him, "You’re not going on this trip."

            "I know. Guess it’s your turn to fly off into the unknown."

"I won't be gone long but I may be out of contact for short periods of time. So you’re in charge around her for a bit. I trust you, but Knox is a smart guy. Lean on him if you need to."

            "See you when you get back."

Brewer retreated across the lawn toward the mansion. Trevor hoisted his bag and turned toward the open side door but something caught his eye. Standing on the far side of the north perimeter fence watched a white wolf.
The
white wolf. The Old Man’s familiar.

Trevor locked his eyes on the animal and shot a stern middle finger in its direction.

           
Yeah, I got a path to walk, but I think I’ll take a little detour.

            Trevor boarded the craft and the passenger module door slid shut behind. A moment later, the shuttle gracefully rose vertically from the landing pad. When it cleared the surrounding treetops, the hydrogen engines pushed the craft toward the horizon.

            Internal Security officer Ray Roos stood on the mansion grounds and, with a curious eye, watched the Emperor fly away.

            General William Hoth stood in the cupola of an Abrams main battle tank. In front stretched Route 28 heading straight for Blanchester, Ohio. To his left and right, open fields of frozen soil broken only by sagging or even snapped telephone poles. Behind, six more Abrams tanks, a couple of Bradley fighting vehicles, several Humvees, and all manner of civilian vehicles 'up-armored' with metal plates and bars moving single-file on the pot-hole-marred roadway.

            Overhead, a quilt of gray clouds pressed down on the battlefield as if trying to smother the scene. Gusts from icy winds caused a black banner depicting a hand holding a hammer to flutter at the rear of his tank.

            BOOM! BOOM!

            A pair of explosions in the field sent chunks of tundra and black smoke curling into the air. A moment later pebbles and ice
tinged
off his armored ride.

            Hoth wore a headset through which came a communiqué from three quarters of a mile to his right—northern—flank. A female voice reported, "Hostiles engaged at Dudley Road."

            He radioed, "Punch straight through, Captain Rothchild. Do not break formation."

            The response came in the form of a ground-rattling blast; the unmistakable sound of a main gun firing.

Through field glasses, Hoth spied his companion column as it drove along Second Creek Road, parallel to his own route. Like his, Gwen Rothschild's 'armor' started with impressive Abrams tanks but the further east it stretched the more it became a smorgasbord of car lot leftovers until ending with rusting fuel trucks and covered cargo carriers.

Facing that column, six-legged van-sized robots with tubular metal frames, eyes resembling LED displays, and a mouth-like speaker on a front face plate. On either side of that "face" fired lethal Gatling guns swiveling on round bases giving them a wide firing arc.

            Roachbot drones, the same type defeated by Jon Brewer during the Battle of Five Armies.

            BOOM! BOOM!...BOOM! BOOM!

            Enemy artillery exploded to either side of Hoth's column, forcing him to refocus on his end of the pincer movement. He swung his binoculars forward and saw a sight identical, no doubt, to what Captain Rothchild saw in front of her: a line of Roachbot drones followed by several 'Mortarbots'.

            The 'Mortarbots' resembled walking cannon. More specifically, they could have been silver-painted guns lifted from an 18
^th
Century Man-O-War.

            They moved on two mechanical legs affixed to an upward-pointing big gun that included a faceplate at the bottom of the barrel. The things wobbled in a clumsy manner but would stop, squat, and spit an artillery shell to the sound of a synthesized voice,
"bwamp-bwamp."

            Hoth instructed his gunner, "fire at will," but reminded the driver, "run through."

            The General clamped his hands on his headset but the mind-numbing blast from the main gun still managed to make his ears ring. However, the result—a Roachbot drone obliterated into clumps of metal—made the pain easy to bear.

            A blast of heat from behind caught his attention. He swiveled around in time to watch two halves of a burning Humvee roll off the road.

When he faced forward again, he saw sparks as Roachbot rounds sprayed his tank. Above the squeal of tank treads he heard the insane ramblings of the drones:
A-hehehehe. A-hehehehe.

BOOM!

            Hoth's ears rang again but, also again, a Roachbot fell to pieces.

Before he could fully appreciate the direct hit, the General instinctively ducked as his tank smashed through the remains of a rusted pick up truck cluttering the intersection of Route 28 and tiny Dudley Road directly in front of a "Welcome to the Village of Blanchester" sign.

"Captain Rothchild, what is your status?" Hoth radioed as he raised his binoculars.

"We've breached the front line and are taking up final positions."

Hoth confirmed her words with his eyes. Rothchild's column slowed their westward advance and pivoted to face south. At the same time, his column slowed and turned north. Between the two gathered a mass of Roach and Mortar bots, caught between two pincers on the wide open terrain of a dead field.

"All guns, watch your crossfire, aim low and aim accurate," he radioed.

If the enemy understood their predicament, it did not show. The Roachbots fired wildly—one could say crazily—with no regard for each other. Before the first human volley launched, Hoth watched a Mortarbot lob an explosive shell in the midst of three of its drone brethren and robotic Gatling guns tear apart two of their own number.

Then the guns of the 2
^nd
Armored Division came to life. Abrams tank rounds, TOW missiles from atop Humvees, machine guns with armor piercing rounds, bazookas, and short-range artillery turned the mob of alien machines into a cloud of dirt, metal, fire, and smoke.

As his brigades finished their work, the General organized an expedition to invest the Roachbot assembly line constructed nearby on the grounds of old Blanchester High School. A place known in human circles as a ‘slaughterhouse.’

---

            Trevor's flight west included a refueling stop outside of Pittsburgh where he flew over the reincarnated steel mills. Smoke billowed from the foundries while convoys carried raw materials in and forged steel out.

            Stone knew that those mills operated thanks to Omar Nehru’s matter-makers. He also knew that the workers in those mills stamped the axles and girders and gun barrels keeping the armies on the march.

            However, those same workers only recently returned to the job after a three-week strike protesting the dropping value of their 'pay' in the face of rampant inflation. Trevor did not enjoy the irony that before the introduction of an official currency—as pushed by Evan Godfrey and others—those steel workers earned little more than food rations yet never felt so dissatisfied as to walk away from the mill.

            It felt to him as if the return of currency was yet another Pandora's Box from the old world. Certainly money would have its place again someday, he just wondered if humanity would be better served if such things from pre-Armageddon life did not return until after securing the survival of the species. Alas, money, politicians, unions, snake-oil salesmen, and accountants had escaped from their bottles.