Of all the things his half-brother said, one accusation stood above the rest: “You started this. You caused Armageddon.”
Trevor sighed aloud.
“You’re worried, aren’t you?” Ashley asked. “There isn’t something you haven’t told me, is there?”
“Maple said JB did not have a concussion, just a pretty good whack on the head. He’s going to be fine.”
“Then why are we sitting here waiting? Why isn’t he on his way home with us?”
Trevor wrung his hands more and explained, once again, “Because I asked Dr. Maple to run those extra tests. Just to be sure.”
“To be sure he doesn’t have a concussion?”
“Yes,” he lied to her.
To find out who my son really is.
General Stonewall McAllister strolled among the devastation wrought by the human and Hivvan armies. Medics lifted crying, pleading comrades from the rubble and hurried them to aid stations while scattered pistol shots signaled the end for alien wounded. A haze of smoke and dust hovered over the scene where the destruction on the ground contrasted sharply with the peaceful blue sky overhead.
Those Hivvans who survived the battle pulled out of “South of the Border” and retreated toward Dillon on secondary roads, primarily Rt. 301.
More than three hundred of Stonewall’s troops died, at least twice that number injured enough to be pulled from the lines. They killed nearly that many Hivvans in addition to destroyed Firecats and artillery.
McAllister realized, however, that had the aliens truly grasped the supply shortfalls faced by his army, they might have risked reinforcements from Columbia. His ‘mechanized’ division lacked the fuel to put the bulk of his mobile units into battle. A little air support or a battlebarge might have allowed the enemy to take the offensive and beat back his infantry, thus halting the entire plan to form a pocket around the alien army in North Carolina.
Regardless, the Hivvans still nearly fought him to a standstill. Only an advantage in artillery range and accuracy allowed humanity to carry the day so quickly. If not for Ross’ guns, Stonewall would have had to deploy almost his entire division to flush out the Hivvans, and that would have cost at least a full day, if not two.
Nevertheless, no significant enemy defenses remained in front of Dillon. They would collect and bury their dead, muster the division, and reach their objective in one last fast march.
That would come tomorrow. What daylight remained would be used to pull his forces together, tend to the wounded, and prepare.
As he resolved himself to this course of action, Stonewall allowed his mind to wander. That is, ‘wander’ in the way a ship ‘wanders’ when in the grip of a whirlpool. It may feel like sailing, but the pilot truly has no choice in direction.
His eye recognized the landscape. His soul-the one buried beneath-filled with old desires. The ghosts called.
With his army’s position secure, General Garrett McAllister issued the rather routine order to dispatch scouts. To the surprise of his officers, the General chose to personally lead one of those scouting parties.
The glassy look in Stonewall’s eye caused Kristy Kaufman, Dustin McBride, Woody Ross, and 17-year-old bugle boy Benny Duda to accompany the man who had saved each of them five years before when the fires of Armageddon threatened to consume everything.
So they ignored the danger of gathering the division’s top officers into one patrol and rode with their leader-their friend-into the past.
They traveled north on back roads near the border between the Carolinas. Horseshoes clomp, clomp, clomped on the pavement, trotting at a leisurely pace along a secluded route surrounded by litter-filled brush. The rustle of slung machine guns, the slosh of half-full canteens, and the gentle jingle of spurs created an almost calming melody.
Five years before, Garrett McAllister-in the person of “Stonewall”-assembled survivors and trekked north, charming his flock with a smooth tongue, courage, and a seemingly supernatural vision of a lakeside estate where humanity gathered for a stand.
In the midst of the chaotic collapse of law and order…in the face of horrendous creatures from the worst possible nightmares…at a time when people deteriorated to basic and selfish survival instincts…in the middle of that came a gallant southern gentleman full of bravery, dignity, and honor.
He treated them with respect but expected their best efforts. He suffered no fools, yet comforted the strong in their moments of weakness.
Through it all, no one ever asked their General the most basic question. No one ever asked, ‘who is Garrett McAllister?’
In a land where three-legged platypus creatures carried laser rifles and Mutants with massive maws rode hovercraft, a man with the persona of a Civil War General did not seem so odd. They accepted his persona because Armageddon had swept the slate clean.
The solitude of the road they traveled gave way to more signs of yesterday’s civilization.
They came upon a convenience store with two gas pumps and a rusted Buick station wagon out front.
The patrollers guided their horses into that parking lot to find what five-year-old goodies might be scavenged, although they knew any gasoline in the pumps would have long ago eroded into worthless liquid.
One of the mounted riders did not follow the rest.
Stonewall eschewed the store and directed his horse in another direction, toward a bank of numbered mailboxes under a large wooden signpost for “Happy Acres.”
The General examined those boxes for several seconds before dismounting and tying his steed to a yellow and black “Children at Play” sign.
Stonewall, as if in a trance, followed a small side road that ascended a slight grade into a patch of thin woods.
Across the way, Benny Duda took note of the General’s behavior. He grabbed the attention of the other officers who, one by one, dismounted and tied their horses, too.
Woody Ross directed the attention of Dustin, Kristy, and Benny to one particular mailbox.
McAllister.
They followed their General. Garrett paid them no attention; his eyes remained focused ahead as the woods gave way to a flat clearing holding the remains of a trailer park.
A few of the mobile homes stood intact, but they were the exception. Others lay in halves, many more burned to the ground, one simply flattened like a stomped cardboard box.
Garrett’s head turned side to side as he walked, marking each home, each memory.
At the end of one row sat the remains of a trailer, its roof and most of the walls burned or otherwise disintegrated yet, ironically, the front door stood closed, held in place by a frame that refused to collapse.
Garrett paused for a brief moment and then circumvented the door, walking under the shadow of what remained of the roof.
His eyes grew wide and his lips parted slightly, giving him the look of a child in the grips of great wonder.
Burned boards and curtains and shattered glass littered the floor. He stepped around overturned furniture, a crooked reading lamp, and a split kitchen table as he surveyed the destroyed interior.
His friends hovered several paces behind, silently watching.
Garrett removed his hat and tucked it under one arm as he approached a shelf nailed into one of the few remaining walls. He ran a hand over the surface, as if performing a white glove test. When he found nothing other than dust, he retreated a step and scanned the debris below.
Garrett bent and retrieved a picture frame from the floor. The image showed a woman, a little boy, and a little girl. A mother and her kids. A wife and a husband’s children.
He held the frame and studied it, tracing the cracked glass with gloved fingers, touching the faces of the family there. His fingers trembled. At first a little, but then more.
His eyes narrowed and lips pursed tighter…tighter…and then he surrendered.