"What are you talking about? Who are you?"
The Old Man smiled and said, "Sit by the fire for a spell and I’ll tell you a story."
31. Contact
The army approaching from the south-the "Vikings"-spent the night camped on the side of a mountain overlooking the neglected farms around Drums, Pennsylvania. At dawn, they resumed their northbound march along Interstate 81.
Stonewall split his forces into two brigades and maneuvered to engage the aliens. The General personally led "First Brigade" with Kristy Kaufman and Benny Duda, the 13-year old trumpeter, at his side. Dustin McBride once again commanded "Second Brigade" with the aid of Woody "Bear" Ross and Cassy Simms. Each formation included twenty-five mounted fighters.
Stonewall spent the first hours of his mission reconnoitering the enemy. When he garnered enough information, he found a safe spot atop a grassy slope, unpacked a heavy transmitter, and radioed his findings.
Miles away, Eagle One sat silent in a parking lot between the western banks of the Susquehanna and Route 11. Trevor and Dante, in the cockpit, listened to Stonewall’s report.
"The enemy can be considered humanoid in that they have two arms, two legs, a pair of eyes, and the like, and they are most certainly not barbarians. The 'Viking' name assigned to them is quite misleading. In terms of appearance, they’ve got big, puffy cheeks with wiry hair, a kind of whiskers I suppose. Their heads are mainly bald. Indeed, as I look at them I recall the fancy creatures of a Dr. Seuss book in that their outward appearance is almost peaceful. Alas, I regret to report their nature to be far more militaristic."
Trevor radioed, "What do you mean?"
After a patch of static, Stonewall answered, "They wear a battle suit resembling a poncho with a hood and goggles and a kind of rough trousers beneath. Their wardrobe displays a rather interesting attribute in that it changes colors to match surroundings, like a chameleon. These ponchos will turn green when walking through the grass, brown or rusty red in the forest. It was our misfortune to realize this ability when one of my riders found himself ambushed."
"Okay. I see what you’re saying."
"This group appears to be the most, um, capable of the forces we’ve faced to date. They use scouts and pickets and guard their flanks. They’ve broken their marching formation into smaller ranks to better conceal their number. Indeed, I invested many hours of scouting before gleaning the most basic information."
"What about weapons?"
"Their main armament is a kind of rifle. It fires fairly silently, therefore I suspect no powder cartridge; perhaps a magnetic mechanism that projects a pellet that kills more with speed than size. I suspect their guns to be at least as lethal as our own."
While Trevor mulled that information, Stonewall emphasized the bad news: "It is my opinion we are facing the best fighters we have seen thus far. They are not going to fall easily into a ruse in that they exhibit a degree of battlefield awareness lacking in the Redcoats."
"Weaknesses?"
"I have not spied any air cover. Considering Mr. Dunston was struck by ground fire it is fair to assume they are capable of defending against air attack. Furthermore, I saw no artillery, but there are several carts or wagons pulled by what can best be described as reptilian elephants."
Trevor asked, "How many?"
"As I have indicated, they go to great lengths to hide their numbers. My best estimate is somewhere between three and four hundred."
Trevor sighed. With three armies approaching, he had hoped to outdo enemy quantity with quality. It now seemed that the Vikings alone would pose problem enough.
He transmitted, "Okay, then, you need to slow them down. Whether we live or die might just depend on how much of a pain in their ass you can be."
"I will endeavor to be as big a pain as possible."
The communication ended.
Dante, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, asked, "Now what?"
"Now we start our own little war up here."
"Let me get this straight, buddy. Two thousand Red Hand warriors marching toward us and to stop them we’ve got me, you, and about three hundred K9s? That sum it up?"
Trevor told Dante, "You’re forgetting something."
He changed to a different frequency and radioed, "So, sweet heart, you ready?"
Nina’s voice answered, "Roger that, we’re coming up on you."
Dante cocked an ear and, after a moment, heard the beating blades of two Apache helicopters.
"Okay, I get it, we've got the choppers. Still, man, ain’t these odds kind of shitty?"
Trevor answered him honestly, "Get used to it."
– "Let us labor with the strength of the Lord! Put your back into it, for Christ’s sake!" Reverend Johnny directed his words at the work party digging trenches, building earth walls, and clearing fields of fire along the summit of a ridge.
His workers wore t-shirts and heavy-duty boots; jeans and sweat pants, even a few in khaki shorts. Those men and women-some old, some young-once worked as teachers and retail clerks, waitresses and stock boys. Now they were something akin to army engineers.
Johnny’s ridge served as the first of three defensive lines atop three consecutive wooded mountains separated one by one by small valleys. In front of his position descended a forested slope. To his right and far below ran the lanes of Interstate 81 as that road cut through the mountains south of Wilkes-Barre.
The Reverend supervised a crew of nearly one hundred laborers and he knew that soon they would trade in their shovels and spades for rifles and mortars.
Jerry Shepherd's voice came from the radio Johnny carried: "We need to work faster, people, we need time on our side, and it ain’t there yet."
Reverend Johnny’s answer traveled the airwaves to a camouflage-painted Winnebago parked along the highway in the rear area of the ‘southern front.’
"We will endeavor to increase our pace, Mr. Shepherd, Lord willing these battlements will stand ready within the hour."
Shep, inside the mobile command post, did not bother to answer. He knew everyone in his command, including Johnny, understood the challenge ahead. It probably served no good to badger them but, for the time being, Shep could do little more than badger.
Estimates put the Viking army at less than three hours away. The newly christened General feared his men would not be ready for the fight. However, a piece of good news did arrive when Rhodes, dressed in worn BDUs and a Kevlar helmet, walked into the RV and informed, "The big guns are five minutes away."
Rhodes referred to a pair of the captured Redcoat artillery pieces.
"Good. We’ll need em’."
Shepherd turned his attention to a map drawn on construction paper. It approximated the area he aimed to defend but lacked scale. Shep’s mind saw not the crudely sketched lines but, rather, the force mustered to defend those lines. He mentally counted the assets at his command.
Assets? Now don’t go foolin’ yourself, Shep. You’ve got yourself a patchwork of people, half of which might just run at the first gunshot.
He could not really blame them. Most of the two hundred souls he directed had received some kind of basic training over the summer: marksmanship, weapon maintenance, and rudimentary tactics. That did not change the fact that most had no combat experience and while survival in the face of Armageddon had hardened their skin, shooting at and running from monsters did not compare to the chaos and focused carnage of battle.
Still, Shep worked with the dealt hand. He knew these people to be brave, for they had survived the end of the world. He knew them to be strong, for the weak had long since perished.