Beyond Armageddon: Book 03 - Parallels (62 page)

It did not surprise him when one of his escorts shoved him from behind. First a hand that sent him stumbling, then a rifle butt knocked him to a knee.

He stood with his hands held high, empty palms plain to see.

Nina took a punch in the shoulder and fell forward, but they did not stop moving; the escorts drove them forward as if they were obstinate beasts in need of encouragement but deserving of no compassion.

The guards lining the high ridge of the crater watched like an audience in the coliseum eager to see the lions feed.

Another shove, then a kick. This time Trevor fell to the dirt. A small puff of smoky dust rose from the impact.

A guard slapped Nina’s head. A rifle jabbed in to her back. She coughed a cry of pain but kept on her feet.

Stone wiped away the dirt with one stroke, held his hands high once again, and stumbled forward amidst another shove. Another hate-filled push.

Two walls of Chaktaw closed in on either side of the contemptible prisoners. Some wore their combat gear, their eyes hidden behind hoods and goggles. They stood like statues as the escorts drove Trevor and Nina forward.

Some did not cover their heads. They wore simple but rugged uniforms that lacked any flare. They were human in general shape and design, but with puffy faces and barren scalps surrounded by tufts of hair.

Another nudge; another trip and Trevor fell to the ground with Nina beside him. He tried to stand but a rifle smacked into his knees. Apparently the privilege to stand had been revoked. He and Nina knelt before the leader of the Chaktaw.

Every thing stopped. The wind whipped overhead as it dipped into then out of the crater.

Trevor recognized Fromm. The Chaktaw leader stood out from his brethren in the same manner that the Fromm he had killed at Five Armies stood out: one green eye and one of hazel.

To his surprise, however, a human woman—skinny and malnourished—stood among Fromm's entourage. Her messy brown hair and sad brown eyes suggested a beaten woman despite any sign of wounds. While he did not recognize the face, he certainly recognized a slave. The leash around her throat held by a Chaktaw soldier accentuated the fact.

She stepped forward and translated for Fromm, speaking in an unnatural monotone that suggested her humanity had retreated deep within her shell.

"You are Emperor Stone. We believed you to be dead."

Trevor kept his eyes focused on Fromm and answered, "I am not the same Stone."

Fromm's lips clamped shut and his eyes of two different colors appeared to bulge in the slightest. Trevor easily recognized that the Chaktaw leader stood at the edge of rage. After all, how would Trevor have greeted the Hivvan leader or one of The Order's Bishops?

The translator took Fromm's words and spoke, "Jaff told us your stories of universes and duplicates. I found those stories amusing. My amusement has ended. You will die."

Rifles pointed at the two captives.

Despite a stoic translation, Trevor heard the sarcasm as the woman relayed, "If any more Trevor Stones come, we will be sure to kill them, too."

"Wait! I know about the key. I can help you win this war. I have a gift for you."

A barrel pressed against his temple.

            The Internal Security guard raised a bull horn and tried to speak but the tremble in his lips made him stop and re-focus. After a moment, he found the strength to shout, "Disperse now!"

            His command cut through the evening air with plenty of volume, but despite his best effort, did not sound authoritative in any way. He sounded, in fact, scared. Shouts and jeers from the crowd that had grown into a mob that would soon be a riot easily drown his hollow order.

            That Internal Security agent and his six comrades stood on the lawn outside the Maryland Governor's colonial-style mansion. In this case, 'Maryland' was more a general territory as opposed to the rigid borders of the old state of the same name. The idea of state governments remained a fluid and vague concept.  

Regardless, the Governors and the territories they governed were symbols of Trevor Stone’s control over "The Empire." They stood in contrast to the districts carved and marked to elect Senators, which became symbols of the fledgling 'democracy' movement.

No one had seen Trevor Stone in nearly two months. With a flimsy cover story on one hand and, on the other, activists warning that Stone was dead and the military had taken control, the settlements and outposts and mechanisms of "The Empire" threatened to unravel.

Had he been killed outright, perhaps the people would have shown more patience. His disappearance not only fueled speculation, it fueled fear. With fear came panic. With panic came mobs. With mobs came riots, as the case at the Governor's residence in Annapolis that night.

Internal Security agents held position inside a temporary chain link fence installed after gun shots hit the Governor’s residence two days ago. The crowd numbered close to one hundred protestors.

The I.S. agents noticed boards and bats and crow bars among the crowd. Fortunately, no sign of guns, probably because if the mob carried actual firearms they could no longer be billed as 'peaceful.'

Still, it made little difference because just last week the Governor's security detail had been cut in half, despite the growing threat to the residence. That decision baffled the local commander but since it came from the 'top' he saw no recourse. Of course, in recent weeks it seemed difficult to discern exactly who or what was at the 'top'.

"Disperse now!" The I.S. man shouted again although the only people who looked ready to disperse were the Internal Security agents themselves. Even the twenty Doberman Pinchers assigned to protect the Governor appeared unnerved by the growing volume of the crowd.

Instead of jeers, this time the mob reacted with action. The mass pressed forward into the fragile fence. It bent in and then the support poles—held in place by cinderblocks and stakes—buckled and fell.

Bottles and rocks rained on the security detail who lacked both body armor and non-lethal weapons. Their only tools were ineffective bullhorns and overly effective automatic weapons. With the choice being either flee or gun down the protestors, the agents chose the former and left the K9s alone to stem the tide.

The barricades collapsed and the mass of angry people swarmed the wide lawn, trampled the hedges, and stormed toward the house. With the human agents escaping via the back yard, the dogs could only buy time.

K9 teeth tore away fingers, severed a hand, and took chunks of flesh out of legs, but they were quickly run over and beaten with boards and planks and metal bars. Barks turned to squeals. Four-legged carcasses oozed red and lay still on the grass.

The Governor and his two personal bodyguards hurried the young children of the family upstairs and prepared to shoot any who trespassed into the home.

Windows smashed, door knobs rattled. The shouts and jeers and boisterous hollers of the attackers created one big churning ball of noise like a violent thunderstorm.

Then another noise came. One that sent a vibration through the walls of the mansion.

Thump-thump-thump.

A Blackhawk helicopter arrived overhead but failed to impress. Someone threw a rock at the chopper. The act of defiance elicited a response from a fifty-caliber machine gun that tore into the crowd below. Suddenly, the mob lost its stomach for violence and vandalism.

Bodies of rioters fell alongside beaten dogs. The machine gun fired with more than the goal of dispersing the crowd, it fired in anger. Anger as real as the anger that had propelled the mob in the first place.

After several moments the gun fell silent. The moans of the dead and dying could not be heard over the oppressive drone of the rotors.

---

            The man with the thick glasses zipped his wool coat over a plaid shirt, stepped out onto the dark stoop, then locked the building's door behind him, the one with the placard reading,
The New American Press
. Philadelphia Editorial Offices.

            Not so long ago, Evan Godfrey's newspaper consisted of a small office in northeastern Pennsylvania and a handful of couriers. Since the massacre at New Winnabow, more people took an interest in
The New American Press’
anti-Imperial, pro-democracy message.

            Godfrey had graduated to a full-time politician and handed over the day-to-day operations to his staff, including Philadelphia branch Editor Jim Huffman, who locked up after a long day at the office. Of course, in recent weeks most days felt long. With the face of Trevor Stone off center stage, his staff no longer contended with a cult of personality. Instead, they focused on Imperialism, war-mongering, and a modern-day post-Apocalyptic military/industrial complex.

            Huffman paced the wide sidewalk of Broad Street. He saw no cars but he did hear a distant
clop-clop-clop
from horse shoes. A few—not all—of the street lights shined but the brightest light came from a torch flickering outside a small restaurant a half-block ahead.

            A much closer sound grabbed his attention, the sound of footsteps approaching at a fast clip. He turned to look and but before he could identify the newcomers, Huffman went flying backwards, his jaw rattled and something—teeth?—loose in his mouth. His arms flailed and his thick glasses tumbled away. His head hit the cold concrete. Before he could even fathom what was happening, boots and shoes slammed into his ribs and chest again and again.

            "The sons of Trevor Stone, mother fucker! That’s right! He’ll be back! Watch what you write, or next time we’ll kill your traitor ass!"

            Huffman fell unconscious.

---

            The morning sun was out there, somewhere, but far removed from the conference room in the basement of the estate where gloom prevailed.

            Jon and Lori Brewer, Gordon Knox, General William Hoth, and Omar Nehru sat at the conference table. A handful of aids waited in the wings.

            "And that is all I can be saying," Nehru finished his report. "Other than the radiation on which you have been told already, there is no evidence of any place to which the structure has gone or to whom it might have belonged."

            "That’s just great," Jon's chair squeaked as he leaned back. "All this time and you’ve got nothing? Shit,
we’ve
got nothing."

General Hoth said, "Army Group North has temporarily pacified the surrounding countryside, and we’ve secured Cincinnati as a result of the…," Hoth, uncharacteristically, stumbled to describe the mass vanishing in that southwestern Ohio metropolis. "…the
situation
there. However, I require the return of the brigades you pulled from the lines last week."

            Gordon jumped in, "We need those brigades for domestic security. You’ll just have to tough it out until we can free them up."

            "Let me rephrase," Hoth paused, gathered his thoughts, and then did just that. "Short of additional mass disappearances, I can not take any more of the major cities with my current manpower. My forces are barely adequate for maintaining defensive positions."

            "Why are we even talking about your army?" Lori Brewer shot. "We need to be focused on Trevor. It’s now or never."

            Jon explained to his wife, "General Hoth either needs those brigades back or he needs to withdraw across Ohio. Maybe even abandon Cincy. Between Plats, Roachbots, and predatory hostiles, his position is becoming untenable."

"Withdrawing now would be a sign of weakness," Gordon said. "At the same time, I think we’re going to need those brigades back here."

            "I do not understand why," Hoth spent most of his time at the front where he received little information on the degenerating situation on the home front. Further, could not understand the idea of neglect of duty, therefore he did not understand why Internal Security units failed to do their job, or could not be trusted to do so. He did, however, notice that the day's meeting did not include Dante Jones.

            "You want to know why?" Lori turned in her chair and grabbed a newspaper from the top of what had once been a basement bar. She read from the headlines. "Riot at Governor’s mansion turns deadly…the ‘Sons of Trevor’ strike in Philadelphia…labor guild promises wild cat strikes if elections are not held…Senate refuses to allocate funds for the military…should I go on?"

            Jon ran a hand across his forehead and closed his eyes.

            Omar offered, "If I may be suggesting, perhaps it is time for us to admit to tell the people of what has happened."

"No," Gordon nearly shouted. "We need to assert military control and publicly recognize Jon Brewer as the acting head of state. We have to follow a military hierarchy."

            "And why is that being?" Omar asked.