Another alien shot zipped through the empty space where a front window used to be and smacked a bookcase against an interior wall. A copy of The Farmer’s Almanac fell to the shaggy rug in two big chunks; balls of dust puffed into the air.
"We can proclaim this engagement a success," Stonewall said as he stood then walked with Kristy to the rear of the house. "They have halted their forward progress and deployed a number of troops. It shall be some time before they continue their march."
The two exited the back door where dead farmland stretched toward forest. Benny Duda held Stonewall’s steed as the General climbed on. Kristy hoisted herself to her own saddle.
"I suppose we’ll be doing this all the live long day, General," she said.
Stonewall tugged the reigns of his horse and brought the beast around. The rest of his brigade formed ranks as they prepared to dash for the woods.
"My dear lady, I doubt our friends will fall for such tactics repeatedly. Eventually they will see the nature of our ways. Things will get dangerous then. Very dangerous indeed."
– Route 11 swung across the Susquehanna River on a traveler’s choice of two bridges. Dante, hidden on the second floor of a home overlooking the river, spied the northernmost of the spans through binoculars and watched as the Red Hands crossed that concrete, featureless overpass en route from Pittston to West Pittston.
The crossing funneled the wide swarm of marching warriors into tight columns. They proceeded with less vigor and more caution after having suffered a pummeling from both the ground and the sky for miles: dead Red Hands covered Route 11 all the way into Pittston.
Dante knew he and Trevor had gotten off cheap thus far. They had swiped at the fringes of the enemy army for hours and inflicted casualties on their foe without paying any price themselves, save for expended munitions and arrowhead scratches on the Humvee. He also knew the hit-and-run raids served merely as a prologue. Now the real fight would begin.
The skies above the alien force remained empty: no sign of any flying machines. The road ahead appeared clear: no hint of an ambush lurking. Nonetheless, the main mass of Red Hands crossed the bridge cautiously.
As soon as the first warriors reached the west side, Dante radioed, "Go."
Two Apaches ascended from hiding spots among the residential streets of West Pittston and raced toward the bridge with chain guns spewing deadly rain. The bullets tore into the enemy columns, splitting the lead elements from the body of the alien army. While the bulk of those trapped in the open retreated the way they had come, about one hundred Red Hands ran forward to join the scouts on the western banks. There they found an army waiting.
Trevor’s army.
Grenadiers poured from the shadows between houses and from under the shade of trees and bushes, attacking from all sides. Dante grimaced as the raging beasts smashed into the enemy with no fear and no hesitation.
Claws gored. Teeth snapped. Red Hand warriors fell under the swarm as if drowning. Blood sprayed into the air above the slaughter and alien howls of pain filled Dante's ears.
Daggers and hatchets felled K9s but not nearly enough to stem the tide. Desperate warriors tried to retreat and were blasted by choppers hovering above the open bridge.
Rifle fire joined the chorus of growls and screams and thumping helicopter blades. Dante saw Trevor, standing away from the melee along the riverbank, raise his M4 and seek targets.
Dante pointed his rifle toward the battle…and stopped. He knew he should fire, but the sight below…gruesome: less a fight and more a slaughter. Indeed, the thought of shooting his bullets at the already doomed Red Hands felt wrong; like piling on a beaten foe.
He watched a group of a six Red Hands muster together, beat back the bites of K9s, then race toward the bridge in a desperate attempt to rejoin their army on the far side. They halted in the face of the Apaches then splintered and bolted in assorted directions. Several descended the banks toward the river; others ran for side streets.
Dante watched Trevor bark orders at his army. Small groups of K9s peeled away from the main battle to pursue the fleeing aliens. A dozen Shepherds bound over the riverbank; another ten Rotties hurried off along the side streets; a trio of massive wolfhounds cornered one Red Hand on the steps of a church and tore away the extraterrestrial's limbs.
Dante realized Trevor would allow no survivors. He planned complete extermination.
The scene below him changed from a mass battle to isolated fights to an eerie stillness around a pile of alien and canine bodies. The barking and beating faded, replaced by dying moans drifting on the breeze.
Dante sat in the window staring at the horror below. He had never seen such a bloodbath. His mouth hung open and his heart raced.
Not Trevor, though. His old friend walked calmly amidst the slaughtered with his rifle ready to snuff any lingering life.
A radio transmission from Nina shook Dante from his trance.
"Hey, we’re bingo on fuel, gotta bug out."
Both of the helicopters hurried off on their way to the refueling station established miles south at the Luzerne County Courthouse.
Dante’s eyes settled on the far bank of the Susquehanna. He knew many more of the Red Hand aliens waited over there. He desperately wished they would change their minds and withdraw, both for his life and for his desire to avoid witnessing such carnage again.
Dante squeezed his eyes shut. Trevor’s voice-a shout from below-pulled them open.
"This is beautiful, man. Beautiful!"
Trevor Stone walked among the corpses, smiling.
– Shep stood at the command vehicle and held the walkie-talkie close to his ear.
"I say, Mr. Shepherd, bring your guns to bear for the first rows of the devil’s legions are approaching on the Interstate for all to see."
Shep translated Reverend-speak and concluded Johnny could see a forward formation of Viking fighters from his position atop the first mountain.
"Um…okay, Rev, you hang on and we’ll drop a little something on your visitors."
Two of the silver, upside-down-bowl-shaped artillery pieces taken from the Redcoats last winter hovered on the black top as part of the rear assembly area that included Shep’s command vehicle. Rhodes stood fifty yards away near a parked Trailblazer along the side of Interstate 81 where he helped two men unload supplies.
"Rhodes! Hey! Get them guns goin’; we need to hit the first mark!"
Rhodes nodded and jogged away from the men unloading supplies, across the road, and to the Redcoat artillery. The gun crews-two teenage boys, an old lady, and a chubby middle-aged woman-followed Rhodes’ orders.
Barrels sprouted from the otherwise smooth domes of the pieces. The mobile guns swiveled left then right; the barrels rose another degree, and the first volley of blue pulses launched with an electric buzz.
Shep watched the projectiles lob over the mountain and disappear on the far side. A second later, he heard a distant shudder as the bolts found their mark.
"Well done, General Shepherd," the Reverend’s voice congratulated success. "You hit the bulls eye. The fiends are scattering and withdrawing from whence they came."
Another pair of shots blasted forth. More distant shudders.
The sharp, unmistakable crack of gunfire echoed from the mountain.
Shep radioed, "Rev, what’s going on up there?"
"Hold, Mr. Shep-NO on your RIGHT! Are you blind? THERE!"
The transmission went silent but the sound of a distant firefight intensified.
"Reverend. Report. Now."
The pop of grenade explosions joined the crackle of gunfire.
Johnny finally answered his radio, "Skirmishers, my dear Mr. Shepherd, coming up through the woods. Apparently, the ones on the highway were not alone. Curses! On your LEFT! Mortar teams, fire!"