As dawn rose above New Winnabow, Trevor’s army came from those woods.
First a few…then more. Trotting forward at a steady pace neither rushed nor slow.
The mass of K9 Grenadiers swarmed from the forest and into those golden fields. Their paws stamped and flattened the grass. Breath from panting snouts sent clouds of frost into the sky like steam rising from machines.
Killing machines.
They came.
Not dozens. Not hundreds.
More.
As they descended the slope, their pace hastened…
…A hand reached down and grasped Nina’s reach. Vince pulled her up and off the ladder to the loft in the barn where the rest of the team gathered.
She did not need reports; she could tell by the expression on their faces that each had completed their mission. They would not celebrate as they had when chasing off the platypus-like aliens outside of Pittsburgh or collapsing the Hivvan walls at Raleigh. Neither would they mourn. They had done their job, nothing more.
Now they waited.
Nina moved to the front of the loft and found a shuttered window. She opened one of those shutters the tiniest bit, just enough to let in the first rays of sunshine. Just enough so she could see the people of New Winnabow coming out of their homes to begin their chores, take their children to school, to build the next new home.
The streets filled quickly and she knew that, by now, the bodies were being discovered. She also knew that even if they sounded the alarm now, it would come too late…
…Jorge Benjamin Stone, the extraordinary three year old boy wearing powder blue pajamas with teddy bears, walked onto the balcony next to his father. He gazed at him curiously as the man stared off into the distance.
JB tilted his head and his eyes glazed over as if trying to solve a complex equation. He found an answer of a kind. He stepped closer to his father and grabbed his hand, taking it with both of his own tiny hands and then holding it to his cheek as if trying to provide comfort…
…The worst sound in all of New Winnabow called out more frantic than it had ever called out before. The alarm bell rang harder, louder, and faster than ever.
That sound carried through the town, into bedrooms, through open bakery doors, and shook the glass window panes at the council building.
Guards in the northwestern quadrant saw it first: a wave of beasts descending upon their village.
Row upon row upon row pouring across the grassy field. Snarling, charging, growling; the mass of invaders smashed into the town like a tidal surge. Their columns streamed down every passage and every street and through ever open door as if they were a deluge of water filling all avenues.
The first group of defending militia did not fire their weapons; they turned to run. The dogs dragged them down from behind, arms and hands and throats torn and ripped and crushed in the jaws of the merciless beasts.
Sharon Parsons walked the street with her son, Tory. The wave poured directly at her.
She stooped over and cradled her shivering son in a ball. Sharon felt the ground shake with thousands of galloping paws; she heard the click of talons on the cobblestones; she heard the snorts and yaps of the attackers.
Then they passed her by. The dogs left her unmolested.
She dared raise her eyes.
Across the small street, she saw an elderly resident tumble and fall against a stack of wooden kegs. He held his cane aloft in a futile gesture of defense.
But he did not need to. The dogs left him unharmed as well.
A shop keeper further along the block was not as lucky. He fired a pistol at the mass which then swarmed him over, turning him into a bundle of bloody clothes in a matter of seconds.
And still they came…still pouring in from the fields.
Guard posts were overrun; sentries bitten and raked with razor claws.
Billy Ray Phelps, the Sergeant-at-Arms, came out of his home wielding a shot gun amidst a fleeing mob of people.
“Stand your ground! Fight! Call out the militia! Call out the full militia!” But no one listened.
Phelps walked along an alleyway and heard them coming. A tremble in the ground. A growing chorus of snarls and barks.
Then the street ahead filled with four-legged animals so tightly packed together that they seemed more like one single organism comprised of black, gray, brown, silver, and white fur.
With a defiant roar, he raised his gun and fired.
Two Rottweilers in the lead stumbled and fell dead but it made no difference; he might as well have thrown pebbles into the ocean.
He fired…and fired…and fired…
…The men inside the armory heard the commotion outside. The screaming. The howls. The gun shots.
They saw, through the tall stained glass windows at the front of the building, silhouettes of people running through The Commons.
The watchman opened the locked cabinets holding the town’s supply of rifles and pistols. He distributed the weapons to the handful of militiamen who had come out despite no order from the council.
The stained glass windows exploded inward. Shards of glass rained down on the men. Dogs came jumping through like water through a breached dam…
…Nina peeked at the carnage unfolding on the streets below.
She found it hard to make out individual dogs because they moved in such unison, but she knew that her best friend, Odin, served as a part of that mass. She also knew that, unlike the Hunter-Killer teams, no human handlers participated in the attack. Indeed, Trevor had warned her at the rendezvous to ignore the ‘chatter’, and by that he meant the concerned calls from the Century and Legion commanders in Wilmington who had watched their K9s disobey all orders and march off to the southwest where they joined hundreds more.
From her observation point, Nina heard the screams and cries of the dying town. She saw many bloody bodies lying in the streets like bundles of discarded, torn clothing.
For all the horror she witnessed over the years, for all her work in the shadows, she still found the need to avert her eyes…
…Billy Ray Phelps fired and fired despite blood dripping across his face, despite having lost two fingers, despite legs pouring out blood from torn skin. A dozen dead dogs lay at his feet. The barrel of his shotgun grew so hot he feared it might melt.
The canines circled the crazed defender then rushed from all sides. A Husky bit into his lower leg. A Doberman leapt on his back and clamped its jaws on his shoulder. A German shepherd drove its head into his gut while a Rottweiler bit down on his arm.
Phelps fell over, beneath the swarm, and was torn apart, piece by piece…
…K9s battered doors with their heads, smashing through even if it cost a half dozen dogs their skulls first. They crashed through windows and jumped over walls.
Any of the residents branding a weapon died, including a man who absently held a knife he used at breakfast and a woman carrying an unloaded gun.
With no council to call out the full militia, resistance faded fast, particularly since the Grenadiers seized the armory in the first few minutes.
The battle was won, but that had never been the question…
…Trevor Stone stood on the balcony of his estate with his son clutching his hand as they watched the sun rise over the mountains surrounding the lake.
It was a new day in The Empire.
26. But What of the Meek?
At last, the army moved.
Metallic squeaks marked the crawl of tanks, the clack and clink of loose gear reverberated through marching ranks.
After freeing the blockage of New Winnabow, the 1 ^ st Mechanized Infantry Division gushed forward with incredible speed.
Bogart, the General’s aide, took charge of the vanguard. By noon they reached the crossroad town of Supply, North Carolina where they established a strong point guarding the intersection with Rt. 211.