CHAPTER EIGHT

“But…”

“No buts! I know he was here from the beginning, and a good friend of some of you, but we have to pull out! The air strike will only give us so long…”

“That’s enough, Major.”

Colonel Jacobson turned to face the assembled men and women. They were torn, bloody, dirty, and otherwise showing signs of the battle. Some still had slightly smoldering clothes and hair. He himself had a bloody gash down his back where a greater daemon had struck him.

Behind everything, fires raged. The air strike had leveled the entire area near the gate, then worked its way down the line. The shockwaves had blown out every window, and glass was scattered everywhere. Within hours, most of the base would be in flames, the dense woodland seeing to that much.

And to the dead. They had no time for a proper grave. A single mass grave had to do. Far too many had died.

Jacobson shook his head. “You know that we cannot, and will not stop. The base is overrun. The only way out is through the city now, there’s nothing to the west. General Kolbe is moving his forces upwards to us and get us to another location. And this place is literally burning to the bare ground. If you leave, you go alone.”

Everyone was drop dead tired. But the loss of so many was even more tiring. This was no way to live. Not a life at all. More of a half life, or living a nightmare.

Avron took a few paces forward. “Alright, lets move!”

“Yea,” Jacobson said, “However tempting, we can’t join the dead just yet.”

. . .

Heavily laden trucks, cars, tanks, and more of those ever present jeeps rolled onto the old highway. Behind them, a dull red glow met the onrushing stars, turning what would have been a clear night into a murky blackness. The Nightshade drew sullenly away from the dock, having waited for the last minute. Jacque, Matt, Madman, and Wireboy stood on the upper deck, silently staring into the fire. It was odd. They hadn’t really noticed Demicus much before. He had just always been there.

The war had done that to him. Brought out the side of him he had always nurtured, but had never let loose. He had embraced war, made it his. He had been untouchable.
But even he had fallen.

He had once told them, back in the bunkhouse after a successful raid, that he wanted to die in war. Something heroic. A last stand upon a pile of corpses, flag in one hand, and his sword in the other, denying the enemy to the last.

Jacque hoped he had at least gotten that much.

. . .

The old interstate was a no go. Something had collapsed it. Kolbe radioed ahead to find a place in the city, lay low. He would have boats come up along the lake in the morning, drop aid, and sometime later his forces would arrive, back roads not having been designed to handle tanks and other AFV’s

Neither Jacobson, nor Silva, liked the idea. The undead were far more active at night. Both kinds. And there were still daemons about. The north side of the city was burned out in large places, the fire of that morning still smoking pitifully. So they turned back, made for the Resort. It would be simple to be picked up from there, and it was easier to defend than other places along the lake.

Apparently some of the Daemons figures the same thing. A small group attacked the convoy as it snaked its way back. It was easily defeated, and the scattered units quickly reformed.
But each delay would be costly.

. . .

The Nightshade pulled into the dock, and unlike its previous entries, came to a full stop. Lines were tossed down and tied fast, and silent figures strolled into the night. Lights flickered slowly all around. Before they had left, the Resistance had brought the city’s power grid back online. It was out in places because of no maintenance, but the resort was on at least.

Jacque and Matt entered through the main entrance, slowly moving through the building. With the convoy delayed, the Nightshade would secure the building, holding it until the others arrived.

Jacque slowly played her light up and down the area, emitting from the multi lamp on her M-16. The sniper rifle wouldn’t be as useful in these tight quarters. The thin red beam that accompanied it was occasionally crossed by Matt’s as they cautiously searched. Maybe there weren’t any of the bloody…wait… what was…

She had blown out the zombies brains before she had even fully registered it was there. More were behind it though. A lot more. She opened up, screaming an incoherent war cry, body parts flying everywhere. Matt opened fire as well, but it was down the other hallway. There were a lot more undead than they had expected…..

Super! Left! BAM! Sent back to death. Reload, cycle the bolt, continue firing. She was going to run out if…

Click click click. Click click click.

Empty.

She threw the spent weapon aside, drawing her daggers. Matt also threw his gun aside, unhooking the chainsaw he had strapped over his back. They could hear gunfire from elsewhere in the building. Maybe they could hold out until the others got here, maybe they couldn’t.

Matt revved the saw menacingly. He was ready. He was going to kill them all. He woul…

The two stopped. Their shadows were stretching out in the faint light. Wha…?

Headlights… MOV…!

Something smashed thorough the glass doorway, engine screaming in protest. Glass shattered into a million pieces, barely missing Jacque and Matt as they threw themselves behind an old and tattered desk.

Just in time. The vehicle, a battered jeep, exploded violently as packs of explosives inside its cab erupted forth their fiery retribution.

When the debris stopped flying, Matt peered back over the table. The undead were obliterated. Gore and shrapnel were plastered on the walls and ceiling. All but one lone figure were still and lifeless.

That figure limped slowly into view. His body was torn and his clothes were in tatters. Dried blood matted his hair and caked his face, a nasty rip across his face.

Jacque and Matt stood there. It couldn’t be!

It was. Jacque ran over just as Demicus pitched over, blood seeping out of a hundred minor wounds.
“Did you get the lawn mower that …*cough*… ran me over…?”

. . .

CHAPTER NINE

Wireboy, Jacque, and Derelicy stood in the Nightshade’s old main cabin. Sterilized white walls were blemished only by screens with EKG’s and other medical stats. It wasn’t much of a operating room, but it was the best they had.

“Hold there. Nice and tight. Come on man, stay here.”

The wild and random lines on the screen were slowly getting smaller and smaller. Damn, Wireboy thought, if only he had gotten here sooner. Or if someone more experienced was here!
His blood slicked fingers were trying to plug all the holes, but it was a loosing battle. All the blood and plasma was at the base hospital, which was little more than a cinder now. But he had to try. There was still a chance, however tiny.

“Okay, release. Derelicy, go grab those med kits in the commons. Quick! Jacque, take this. Now hold it just like that. Firmer!”

Damnit, there was so much blood everywhere. Moving him here had only opened up the patches Demicus had put on himself. If he were conscious, he could direct Wireboy. He was a better medic. This should really be the other way around…

The spikes on the screen suddenly dropped. Shrill alarms began to ring from every speaker.

“No you don't. No you don't! NO YOU DON'T!"

The lines didn’t respond to his raving. They dropped lower, and slower…

…and then flattened.

. . .

The Resort was a tower of fire in an unholy land.

Hundreds of Resistance and AN troops poured into every door, while other units fired over their heads. The undead were everywhere. The Daemons had fallen back, but everyone knew this was only because they were going to open a new gate. It was inevitable.

The tide slowed, and side doors were closed, locked, and barricaded. Racks, shelves, handcarts, everything and anything were stuffed into narrow hallways to block them, while thick oak tables were turned over for use as cover. The enemy would soon send the lesser daemons against them, daemons who bore wicked firearms with barbed shots, and rusty blades that would not break.

Already they were beginning to feel the strain. Guns that had been fired for hours overheated and failed, ammunition trucks were emptied of what little they had. And the men and women who were close combat specialists began to tire after relentlessly slicing through zombie after zombie.

. . .

Medical teams were being pushed to the brink of exhaustion as well. Wireboy and the other medics and doctors had little equipment left, and more than one man was put to rest by a injection from their fellows, simply because there was no way to save them. An old man, the AN’s chaplain, moved from body to feeble body, delivering last rites, often stopping only a short way in as the life he was speaking to went away.

It was only 9:27pm.

. . .

They would have fallen then and there but for an act of what some would call divine intervention. The endless horde trickled to a stop, and faint lights could be seen to the south.
It was General Kolbe‘s men. The boats he had promised had arrived, just in time to join in the victory cheers, halfhearted as they were. Fresh soldiers took up the watch, while the dead tired survivors didn’t bother to fine decent places to lie down, and simply passed out on the spot. A light meal was served to those who stayed awake. Precious medical supplies and fresh orderlies rushed into the triage area and saved dozens who would have otherwise died.

Also they had ammunition. It was gladly distributed, as well as the cleaning kits. The ones who were awake still stripped their guns down, replaced damaged parts, swapped out barrels, and cleaned each bit.

Thoughts turned to those who were dead and wounded. Demicus and so many others... They still hadn't been allowed to see the body, nor had the remnants of his team left the Nightshade. People had gone in and out; medics, soldiers, even a few daemons before they were killed.But still he laid there. The thought of him and the others brought morale to rock bottom.

At least the rest of the night passed without incident.

. . .

In the early morning a Blackhawk helicopter set down on the lawn. It had a message. Kolbe's forces had been delayed on the old highway, but would be there before nightfall. The men sighed, but were hopeful. It also brought a man in a white uniform. The fading blue patches on the shoulders said he was a scientist, and the name Richardson was embroidered on the right breast pocket. A handful of soldiers joined the man, two carrying something on a stretcher.

Must be more equipment, one of the sentries assumed. They chatted for a brief moment, then climbed into the helicopter. After a minute or so, three more soldiers ran out and climbed aboard. Then the pilot fed more power to the engine, and lifted off.

. . .

"Mayday, Mayday, this is Bravo 32, we are under attack and are loosing altitude!"

The flying daemon had come at them from nowhere. It must have hidden below the fuselage, where the side guns couldn’t hit it. Red lights and alarms lit up the cockpit, and everyone aboard held on for dear life. Smoke was freely flowing into the main compartment, making them gag and cough. One person was strapped to the floor, but the others didn't have that luxury. The pilot never got the chance to repeat that message.

The aircraft bounced off a rock, shook like a thing possessed, then slammed into some woods.

And all was black.

. . .

---------------------------------------------
INTERLUDE

He had calmed considerably. His forces had made a delightful mess above. His allies had also deployed their minions. They were striking targets across the planet now. This mistake would not last long.

His own master had been full of wrath when he had delivered the news. His master had considered ripping out his liver and eating it in front of him. But he had been satisfied to hear the problem would be taken care of. After all, his allies would not leave him alone in this fight. He would easily crush the enemy. He would do it before the sun sank beneath the horizon. Victory was at hand.

---------------------------------------------

CHAPTER TEN

It was an hour before anyone noticed he was dead.

Wireboy’s brother was pinned to a tree by one of the downed helicopters rotor blades. He never had a chance. The blade has gone straight into his heart, nearly slicing him in half. The backwoods scrub and stands of old trees were soiled with metal, smoke, and blood. It was pretty obvious the copter had crashed some way off course.

Doctor Richardson stood shakily. Other than Wireboy’s brother, the others were alright. Jacque, Seph, Wireboy, and Matt were all there, shaken but none the worse for wear. There was also the co-pilot. She was very young, roughly the same age as Jacque, but she had learned flying skills from her father before the war, and the post war life meant everyone did their part. She was a bit shaken but seemed like she would be fine soon.

It was the person who was missing that caused no mall amount of distress.

“Did anyone see him?”

Jacque shook her head, busy helping Matt and Seph remove Wireboy’s brother from the blood slicked blade.

“Thought you’d say that…”

Wireboy stopped struggling with the firmly embedded blade. It wasn’t going anywhere, and they lacked anything to cut the badly bent piece of metal. He turned to Seph.

“…do it…”

Seph nodded, and everyone cleared away. The tree was thankfully not in a position to start a forest fire if they did a few simple things, so this would be quick and easy. The co-pilot handed him several rags soaked in fuel drizzling from the ruptured tanks, which he wrung put over the corpse. Richardson and Matt cleared the brush and grass away from both helicopter and tree, while Jacque rifled around the downed bird for any supplies or equipment.

It was well into the morning by the time they were ready to leave. The radio had been crushed, and there would have been no chance of a rescue anyway. Ration packs, water pouches, and one of the M-60 machine guns mounted on the side were salvaged, but much of the rest was useless. There was one last item though, one that would stick with Wireboy for a long time.

Wireboy held out the small Zippo. It took only a second for the fuel drenched body to ignite. As the flames licked around the paling flesh, everyone turned away. If he couldn’t be buried, he could at least be safe from the undead.

Thankfully, the co-pilot had a map, compass, and a GPS, the latter of which had a quickly fading battery. But at least they could get their coordinates and location, and let the map go from there.

“Lets see… 47o, 40’ North by… 116o, 34’ West.” The co-pilot, whose nickname of ‘Jinxie’ was anything but reassuring, leaned her head closer to the map. “Okay, looks like there’s a building of some sort over west about… four-fifths of a mile. Could have a car there or something we can get working.”

Doctor Richardson, a former National Guard and boy scout, took up Matt’s rifle and hefted his kitbag. He would at least pull his own weight around here. Matt meanwhile was delighted to play with his new support machine gun, and wrapped the long belts of ammunition around his torso Pancho Villa style.

Richardson started to hike. “Well boys and girls, lets get moving.”

. . .

A series of small skirmishes had been repelled only an hour ago, and the lack of a real offensive had the colonel worried. And for good reason. The longer it took, the bigger it was likely to be.
The resistance had managed to set up impressive fortifications in such a short amount of time. They had stretched their lines to include a small shopping center across the street, connected to the hotel by a sky bridge. This allowed heavy weapons to cover the doorways of the hotel from both sides, and fire teams more flexibility in their strategy.

It had become a waiting game. The AN chaplain and the Resistance’s own priest walked around, spreading platitudes and reassuring comments. Even the non religious people felt better, and the priest was a comic character anyway. An older man, his white robes and the bible on his belt were a contrast to the grenades next to it, and the huge sledgehammer he used as a weapon. He was always a bit uncoordinated and a bit crazy, but he was good for morale.

Food was a problem again. They had enough for one more meal… well, one more round of ration packs anyway. Water was everywhere and not a problem, but the lack of ammunition would become a serious problem when the second major attack came.

Colonel Jacobson could only wait for it to arrive.

. . .

The house was in disrepair, that much was easy to see. Weeds outnumbered grass, and there were some kind of red-orange flowers covering the place.

Richardson leaned down and picked one. Opium plants? Yes, but not the more potent variety. Probably planted with no thought, then after years of no tending, simply overtook the other plants. Just plain garden variety poppies, no real value without there being thousands more. Their seeds would be good on muffins though, he thought off hand.

A faint crash from somewhere in the house made everyone do a double take and snap their guns up, searching. Seph and Jinxie hung back with the doctor while the others took point. They didn’t want the Doc to be killed after all, his research was key to the survival of mankind.

The door was ajar slightly. Matt slowly pushed it open, Jacque covering the gap. No contacts so far. She waved Wireboy in, advancing leapfrog style down the sort hallway. Right, bathroom. Clear. Laundry room. Clear, but with another door. Attic stairs to the left of the laundry. Matt waved Wireboy and Seph, the doctor still following, to check that side while the others continued. Everyone seemed to forget Jinxie, so she went with Seph.

They crept by, flinching at every small and nearly inaudible creak of the floor. Kitchen to the left side. Clear. Dining room, clear. Basement access, blocked. Food storage. Clear too.

So far, so good. Room labeled ‘Music’. Locked tight. Next, bedroom. Clear. Living room, clear. Up a set of stairs. New bedroom, also clear. Another stair above. Some kind of spare room, maybe an office. Clear of anything but flies. Back down. Hmmmm, missed a stair. New bedroom.

As Jacque crept silently up the stairs, they began to creak. Everyone froze. Very slowly, she waved the others to stay, and went up. This bedroom was nicer than the others. Cleaner. Fake plants littered the room, while real ones stood dead in the largest window. A computer sat in one corner, and next to it…

She stopped dead. There, on the wall, was a large picture frame, with dozens of little pictures in it.

She saw herself staring back. And Matt. Tony. Several of her old friends. There is where Demicus and Matt had been at a big Fourth of July party, and had nearly gotten killed by badly aimed mortars. And there was Kyle, and Ariel…

What was going on? She looked around a bit more closely, and noticed it.

The computer had a light on. There was power. That couldn’t be right. But wait, there was one of those power supply’s hooked up to it, ones that would let your computer run for a few hours and save your work if the power went out. It had been a very good one, designed to last for much longer, judging by the little battery indicator. With nothing to run but a tiny LED on the computers back, it may still have a decent charge.

She hit the power button, softly calling Matt to come up. As the screen loaded, she wiped the film of dust off it, revealing a sight that she would remember to the day she died.

It was Demicus. His face stared back out of the login screen, and the computers login name was Demicus_Maximus. Then the supply flickered and died. Jesus…

The others came up behind her. Matt looked puzzle as she shared her discovery. “I thought he used to live in town, over on twelfth or tenth or something? What’s this doing here?”

They looked around again, more closely than her first search for threats. As they did, they noticed things that only he would have had. A large Halo 2 poster, another poster with some zombie movie. An old, beat up sword hung over the bed, and on the dresser was his old PSP, still in its heavy duty case.

Just then there was a great bang from below, like a gunshot. They ran down the stairs and dashed back for the hallway. Through the laundry room’s open door, and into a garage…

And smack into Richardson. Jinxie was rummaging around in a pile of old boxes, while Richardson beckoned them further in. He was standing in front of an old car, a battered station wagon. The sound had been the engine backfiring after three years of disuse. Wireboy was shaking his head in disbelief at something, while Seph looked up from the open hood.

“Hey guys, guess who I found…”

Jacque peered into the windshield. There was someone in the seat. A tall someone, who’s face she had just seen…

It was Demicus.

. . .

“Jesus, Demicus, you shouldn’t even be able to walk!”

Wireboy was in the backseat as Demicus drove the old car along the deserted road. He still had plenty of bandages and one wrist was still like mush, and he was clearly in pain. But something about the air had cheered him up.

He had been pronounced dead three times before an AN medic had shown up and successfully stabilized him that night. It had taken hours of tense and tedious work, performing complex surgery in a war zone. But it had paid off. They had been taking Demicus to the base down south, skirting the thicker fighting, when the helicopter had been hit. It was a miracle he was alive at all. A miracle, plain and simple.

It was a good thing they built cars big way back when, Jacque thought. Demicus and Matt were in front, Richardson, Wireboy and Seph were behind, and Jacque was stuck in the back with Jinxie, no seat at all. Guns were prodding everyone, and most of the stuff had to be ties to the roof.

As he drove, he slowly began to tell how that house had been his family’s, and that just days before the war, he had been going to stay there with his grandparents for a month or two, their ailing health having finally required assistance. It meant missing senior year, but he would do it anyway. He was getting paid after all. But he had come back because he had accidentally taken Tony Carden’s bag, and wanted to give it back. He had things to do, so he had been going to take it that morning before school started, and delivered it directly to the school… and the rest was history. The invasion had occurred, and his entire family had left. They had successfully made out, and were no w in the AN refugee camp outside of Houston, but he hadn’t been back to this place since.

The road that lead to the old highway was in poor condition, so they had no choice but to return to the city. Besides, they only had a partial tank of gas. But their morale was higher than ever before. They really were invincible. Demicus was living proof that they would never have to fight by themselves. Never alone.

. . .

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Bravo thirty-two, bravo thirty-two, this is Convoy Kolbe, please respond, over.”

General Kolbe sighed. He couldn’t believe how this day kept getting worse. He was an hour late for the rendezvous with the survivors, and now the bird that had been carrying critically wounded Demicus was missing.

The city was visible now, it would only be a few minutes before they reached the survivors, but… Something wasn’t right. There were shadowy contacts behind the rear guard, and all around. Kolbe had the sneaking suspicion the enemy was herding them towards the survivors, just to make mopping up easier.

“Bravo thirty-two, bravo thirty-two, this…”

What was that over there?

Wait a second, it…!

. . .

Demicus skidded the car to a stop. There, down below them, in the valley…

Demicus remembered a small cluster of houses had been down there, but he hadn’t remembered there being a mansion. He couldn’t help but wonder who the idiot had been that built there, it was a low valley and often flooding. It was pretty ugly too. Lots of big bushes, and one wing was almost sinking, probably due to a foundation not made to hold back floods.

They all slowly got out of the car, overly cautious. The screeching of the tires hadn’t attracted anything they could see, but they didn’t want to press their luck. They got down on their knees and bellies, trying to minimize their visibility. Jinxie pulled out a small monocular, and peered at the houses. She muttered something unintelligible, then tossed it to Demicus.

He saw what she had noticed. There was a helicopter down there, a Blackhawk if he wasn’t mistaken. It looked like the one that the national guard had kept before the war. Why was it out here, now? It was sitting in front of the mansion, partially hidden behind the ugly edifice, but it was still unmistakable. He might have to use it, Demicus thought without much hope. Some kind of activity was going on further down the valley, and would effectively block off the road.

There was a gasp and the sound of sliding earth. Demicus looked up just in time to see Jinxie living up to her nickname. She was sliding headfirst down the embankment, loose ground giving way around her. Demicus tried to grab her, but was stopped by a lance of pain as his shattered wrist reminded him of its presence.

A moment passed.

“…ow…”

She had slid down the steep embankment, and almost into the river at the bottom. There was quite a bit of foliage growing around the water, so much that nobody had noticed there was a river at all. Wireboy and Demicus slid down after her, more controlled, but still uncomfortable.

Jinxie wasn’t hurt aside from a few scrapes, leaving Demicus to rebind a few of his bandages. Up on the road, Jacque had given up on the little monocular, and was slowly panning her rifle’s crosshair across the little valley. There was defiantly some kind of fracas going on a mile or so further down, but whether or not it was a battle she couldn’t tell; a line of trees was blocking line of sight down the valley.

Besides, nobody was out this far.

. . .

Someone, or something was attacking the daemons.

Dozens of their lesser daemons, their strange but effective firearms and blades more than enough to have halted the convoy, were suddenly dashing back into the tree line, firing and screaming oaths. Kolbe’s men gunned their engines, racing onward, but the visible troops stood with unconcealed confusion.

The enemy had them cold. Why were they fleeing?

They weren’t. Not a single bullet flew from the convoy, but bright flashes of light and falling daemons showed that they were dying. Not just dying, but being slaughtered. Within only a minute, the only sounds audible were the vehicles, and the waves of the lake that lay just beyond the trees.

However disturbing, Kolbe thought, he hadn’t the time to investigate. Even now, advance units were rolling into the city, a minute or less from the resort.

It was time.

. . .

So far, they hadn’t seen anyone.

Demicus, his curiosity overcoming his discomfort, was pushing his way through the foliage between his team and the large house.

And what a building it was. Too small to be called a mansion, as he had thought it was before, but still large enough to house several families; it was at least twice the size of his grandparents ranch.

Wireboy was also intrigued. The helicopter was even easier to see now, and there was something about its surrounding that made silent bells go off in his head. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was SOMETHING about it…

BOOM!

Everyone looked up. The disturbance was indeed a battle, and it was heading their way. Winged child daemons wheeled over the valley, their light firearms leaving trails of smoke connecting them to the earth.

Whatever they were shooting at was coming this way. Fast.

“Jacque! Get everyone down here! Now! Leave the stuff, just grab your gun and head for the chopper!” Demicus tore the bandages on his arm again drawing his pistol, but he had an excuse to ignore the pain. “Jinxie, that thing had better be spinning real quick! Wireboy and I will lay down some fire till everyone is on board! Move!”

He didn’t have the energy to pay attention to them, but the sounds of cursing from the direction of the car left no doubt Jacque had just thrown herself down without looking. Hopefully Seph would think to drag Richardson along.

Stray rounds were pelting through the trees, the Daemons unusual firearms leaving trails of smoke to bisect the breeze. Something else too. A much higher pitched sound, and rolling base. Not normal weapons for either side, that much as clear.

Then, figures burst through the trees. Demicus raised his sidearm, drawing on the first figure…

. . .

“Well, Colonel, what’s the situation?”

Jacobson stood, wincing as the movement pained his new injuries. “Well General, as you can see we’re a little disorganized, underfed, tired, strung out, and did I mention almost out of ammunition? Again?”

Kolbe sighed. He had hoped to begin the evacuation right away, but it would take a few minutes to stabilize the more seriously wounded. Thankfully, the Daemons were leaving them alone for the moment, something Kolbe would use to its fullest.

What bothered both Kolbe and Jacobson, once the latter had been briefed, was the idea of another force in the area. The only thing either could think of was that there could be a group of Redemptionist’s in the area. Not that that was necessarily a good thing.

Those heretic chasers were so fanatical, they made dark age crusaders look perfectly normal. They were as likely to start burning the person watching their back as the Daemon filth in front of them. Which is why most AN troops were content to leave England to this modern Inquisition.
But, this was North America, not England. Could there be another, previously unheard of faction fighting for survival?

Kolbe couldn’t spare the time to ponder these questions. In the time it took to brief Jacobson, the convoy was almost ready to depart.

It was about time they got while the getting was good. The flyboys in the AN air corps would relish the chance to level the city.

Outside, Chaos and Undead were talking with Koopaling and Tyler. Jacobson really was lucky, Kolbe thought as he strode past the window. To have fought and bled for three years, and to suddenly have hos son return from the grave. If only everyone could be so blessed.

The noon sun was beginning to shift. Already, Kolbe’s radio man had sent word back to the AN relay station down south. A flight of A-10 warthogs and a pair of B-52’s were already being fueled and loaded. Because there would be dozens of other flights that also had to take off from the single mass airfield in Colorado, it would take a few hours for any aircraft to reach the target zone. But Kolbe had the time.

By sunset, there would be nothing left standing.

. . .

…and stopped from pulling the trigger. They were human. Demicus couldn’t tell who they were with, but they were certainly making an account of themselves, though it seemed only three were still standing.

They were firing some kind of energy weapon, or perhaps compact magnetic accelerator rail guns. The resistance had helped test one some time back, part of a joint weapons development program with AN scientists. They hadn’t gotten anything that small to work though. Not that these were actually all that small, being almost twice as large as the cut down M-16’s the resistance were used to seeing and using.

Their stopping power was undeniable however. A single shot transformed not one, but two daemons chests into chunks and red mist. And they were firing almost as fast as an assault rifle could, with the accuracy any expert sniper would envy.

Demicus and Wireboy opened up in earnest, drawing the attention of the two new arrivals, another having just been ripped apart by crossfire. They looked at Demicus for a brief second, then resumed their dash for the helicopter.

Jinxie applied a little power, making the craft raise a few inches, and rolled its wheels forward, bringing the side mounted guns into play. Apparently even these guns were new, seeming to be simply larger versions of the ones the now single new warrior held.

With the heavy ’thunk, thunk, thunk’ of the rail gun now giving pause to the Daemons, Demicus and Wireboy clamored aboard. Jinxie slammed the throttle to max, rotating the aircraft so both guns could fire, and leaving the helicopter a smaller target.

As they roared away, the newcomer motioned to Demicus, and handed him a headset. Pulling it on, Demicus could now hear the man over the noise of the helicopter. He seemed to be a fairly old person, maybe around forty five. His white hair was tied back, and he sported a regal white goatee. His face had an air of nobility about it. Not the pampered fat sort, but more like a warrior king look.

He was fairly succinct.

“I am Barbaneth. Who are you, ser, and what are you doing here?”

. . .

CHAPTER TWELVE

The enemy could have easily mistaken them for a beached whale. But the convoy was far bigger, and probably slower.

Avron and Trio were in front, their open topped, scout pattern troop carrier roaring ahead of the rest. Trio was cheering up nicely, the powerful engine keeping him at speeds other people would think suicidal. Chaos was busy puking out the back, and Undead was unusually quiet, too buy clinging onto the pintle mounted machine gun for dear life to talk. The Man seemed unperturbed at the wildly bucking AFV, his fresh new fuel tanks clanking together while his flamer was strapped to the protesting vehicles’ wall.

Avron started as he saw what the road looked like beyond the bend. Or rather, the lack of a view. The road clung defiantly to the side of a mountain, the ground a few hundred feet below them.

“HOLY SHI-!”

“Relax! Ill slow down a bit. Maybe… Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

“No, slow this thing down, righ-”

The rest was cut off as Trio skidded around the sharp corner, and Avrons stomach lost its own valiant battle. Avron scrambled into the rear, bowling over Chaos, and stuck his head out of the open top just in time.

There weren’t many roads left in good condition, and this was the best they had. It would get them around the gaps in the interstate anyway. The convoy needed that freeway if they wanted to make any decent time. A flight of helicopters would meet them at Kellogg, and run interference until they were safely away.

That was all the help they would get though. AN forces were now firmly locked into battle across the north. Daemon gates were springing up in every nook and cranny on the continent.
Trio laughed as Chaos took Avrons seat, still looking slightly green. The Man joined in, laughing enthusiastically. We are a messed up bunch, he thought. We really are.

. . .

“So, Demicus. Now we know you, and you, us. Will you hear my proposition?”

Barbaneth had directed them to the old Shoshone Base Camp, an old church camp Demicus remembered from when his middle school had stayed there. He had honestly thought it destroyed.

They were whisked away into one of the building as soon as the rotor stopped spinning. A little over two hundred people crowded out to see what the fuss was about. But that wasn't the most disturbing part.

They weren’t all human.

Tall lesser daemons, almost human in appearance but for a few minor things. Like the long, shock white hair. Or the small nubs in their skulls where greater daemons would have full horns.

And the fact they were easily seven feet tall.

Barbaneth asked them a few questions, and Demicus had related the story of the AN and Resistance. Barbaneth merely nodded, claiming to have already heard of both, but not knowing there were either so close to his own location. They had just moved in a few days before.

Then he told his own tale.

For thousands of years, the Daemonic forces of the world had toyed with humanity. They grew complacent, and began to become more and more like the people they tormented so.

This changed about ten years ago, he said. The ‘master’ of the Daemons, not Satan but rather his lieutenant, was happily ‘playing’ with a group of young girls, when something that had not happened in millennia occurred. A Daemon was killed by a mortals hands!

This shocked the Daemons into a state of panic. They recalled all their minions and followers, and gathered together. Two Daemons quickly took center stage. Barbaneth spoke their names, but in a language Demicus could not understand. One was a classic Daemon; it had no body. It instead possessed other forms at its whim. The other was of the near human breed, and had greater respect. They decided that humanity had grown like weeds for far too long, and that it was time they slept.

They amassed an army like the world had never seen, and with a plague as its herald, swept across the planet.

But not all were so agreeable. For the last thousand years, some of the looser Daemons had actually impregnated humans, creating half daemons. They had vastly increased intellect, becoming scientists and philosophers, and leading humanity into a new age. But most were considered outcasts. It was this group that formed some of the social ‘cliques’ that Demicus had known, though most of those followers were simply disgruntled humans.

When word of the invasion reached the ears of the Daemons populace as a whole, at least one thought to warn these half daemons. It was a mistake.

These half daemons enlisted the aid of more favorable Daemons and tried to stop the invasion, as they had become content in their lives. When the new Daemon Lords learned of the existence of these half breeds, they accelerated the invasion process, and planned to exterminate these bastard creatures.

Barbaneth, a friend to one such half daemon, thought otherwise. He led a group of fellow humans and rallied them together under one banner.

By the time of the invasion, his forces had hidden themselves away. After a year of hiding, they came out and began to create weapons and technology that could resist the Daemon Lords, using the vast intelligence of the half daemons, and the full Daemons who had decided to join them.
Then the Daemons woke again. Barbaneth had led ten warriors to see exactly what was going on.

Only he returned.

And now here they sat.

Demicus looked at Barbaneth. “What kind of proposal are you referring to?”

Barbaneth leaned forward, and studied Demicus for a moment before replying.

“There are too few of us. Now that the Lords have learned of our survival, they will hunt us to oblivion. We are not your enemies. I propose a merge of our forces. We will trade our abilities and technology in return for your protection.”

“And what makes you think I can help you?”

Barbaneth smiled. “You were one of the founders of your people. You hold much respect among them. They would listen to you. They would simply shoot me.”

Before Demicus could answer, Barbaneth stood.

“Come. Ill show you some of our tech. You look like you could use some right now!”

. . .

Chaos and The Man traded places, while Avron slumped down into his seat, trying not to upset his rebellious stomach any more. They had passed an old station wagon a few moments ago. It looked almost like it had just been used, but it had to have been a play of the light.

It looked like the valley had been partially burned recently though. Probably another little fire. They had seen them a lot in the last few months.

The Man frowned at the radio as it crackled into life. He motioned for Trio to slow a bit, and pulled the headset on.

“Could you repeat that last bit? Couldn’t hear you.”

“…re you doing out there, over?”

“Well, other than Trio’s driving, we’re doing alright. No Daemons, no zombies, no nothing. May have been a small fire out here a little while ago, but it looks alright now.”

“…Okay, copy that. We’re managing to pick up a little speed, so wait for us by the interstate, maybe clear us a path or something. Over.”

“Alright, I hear you.”

He tossed the headset back onto its hook.

“What’d they want?” Avron yelled from in back.

The Man responded in kind, the engines howls of protest making normal speech impossible.

“Nothing! Just wanted an update!”

Trio gave the already abused vehicle some more gas, speeding down the roadway. They would be at the freeway in just a minute now.

. . .

Demicus looked at himself in the full length mirror. The damnable machine really worked as well as Barbaneth had said.

While being showed some of Barbaneth’s tech, he had winced as his bandages came open for the umpteenth time. One of the half daemons had taken one glance and ushered him into their medical wing. Some piece of techno-sorcery had done a lot of humming and buzzing around him, made a cool breeze and green glow, and POOF! His wounds had closed up, fully healed.

Hell, he felt better than before now. Almost as if the machine had given him a little boost of energy. Bah, Demicus thought, he owed Barbaneth now. All these machines were so far ahead of what he was used to…

They had given Demicus and his team all new equipment and clothing, tailored on the spot by another machine. Demicus looked it all over. Dark grey fatigues, backpack, pouches, canteen (not filled with normal water, but some kind of tea. A single sip seemed to restore him, so he assumed it to be a special energy drink of some kind.) and other odds and ends.

The lighter grey armor pleased him. He pulled on the fatigues and started attaching the armor. Thick chest piece and shoulder pads. Knees, boots, legs, thighs, groin, forearms… it offered very good protection. It was also very light, like he was only wearing cardboard. He hoped it was as good as the other tech, and briefly mused over why Barbaneth hadn’t been wearing any before.
The rifle was new too. One of the full Daemons had started droning on about its function, but he has quickly gotten lost. From what he could tell, it was a rail gun that fired small projectiles (so small a single clip held over five hundred rounds), wrapped these projectiles in energy, and blasted them out. Very accurate, fast, deadly, and with an effective range easily double that of an M16. There was also a fat pistol to match.

The sword was what really got him. It was a magnificent sabre of undeniable high quality. Perfectly balanced, its chain wrapped grip seemed made just for him. He would enjoy slicing through a horde of zombies with this.

Demicus finished dressing and went outside. The others had already finished and were waiting on the grass. But before he could say anything, a Daemon ran over to Barbaneth, who nodded grimly.

He looked at Demicus. “Your allies are under attack in the pass. Come, we must hasten there now. We’re out of time.”

. . .

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (ooooo, unlucky…..)

“Another one! Right, high!”

Undead yanked the gun around, tracer rounds chewing through another of those damn flying daemons.

“Got another one!”

The rest of the convoy had caught up by now, only to hear the shrieking of a new Daemon Gate ripping itself out of the ground. Then another. And another. Daemonic forces rushed out, as the valiant defenders found themselves suddenly surrounded.

One of the AN troopers neatly picked off one of the Greater Daemons with a rocket, neat as you please, only to have his triumph cut short when one of the flyers decided to use his head as a football. The decapitated body slumped over, and a rocket flashed out of his tube, detonating on the side of Trios scout vehicle. The tracks jammed and ripped apart, slewing the much abused scout tank to the side.

Avron was the first out of the crippled vehicle. Firing from the hip, he dashed off the road and into the ditch. The crippled tank was an attractive target for those damnable flying Daemons. The Man was out next, a short burst from his flamer lighting up a Lesser Daemon that had the temerity to rush them. Undead was after him, clamoring up onto the roof. He detached the bulky but powerful twin machine gun from the pintle.

The rest were likewise eager to bail out of the stricken machine. The only surviving heavy tank rumbled past, its main cannon managing to destroy the first gate. But it was only a temporary respite, as the gun fell silent, its shot locker spent. Its own pintle gun was still happily chattering away, making a mess of anything it could, while the driver raced the 60 ton piece of mechanized lead down the road, turning daemons into unpleasant stains.

Perhaps the main reason for their still being alive was the Daemons inherent want to be the one with all the kills, often getting in each others way. Indeed, several small side fights were breaking out as Daemons sought to claim additional glory for themselves.

Chaos, now in the ditch too, slapped his last clip home. His P90 would soon be useless, and he’d be reduced to his bastard sword. Not much to be done about that, he thought grimly. He might not live long enough to need more.

The shrieking sound of a new gate tore through his mind again. Damn, he thought. Not another…
Everything stopped.

Every Daemon stopped its fight, stopped their screams. AN troops and Resistance alike also stopped, albeit more slowly.

This gate was different.

It was directly in the center of the roadway, and it was larger than the others. But these traits weren’t the ones that stopped Daemons and humans alike.

It was blue.

Instead of a twisting, vile red glow, it shone with a steady and almost warm blue light. Its wrought iron pylons formed intricate flowers inside their boundaries, rather than the cruel spikes and bloody symbols of the others. And rather than being crude and misshapen, it was perfectly symmetrical and rounded.

The Daemons were as dumbfounded as anyone. They had never seen anything like it before. The Daemons closest to the unexpected intruded shuffled closer. One raised its hand, and gently touched the pylon.

And was promptly blasted off his feet. A single tank, massive and clearly designed by human hands, rolled out of the portal, its huge main gun knocking the stunned Daemons down like ninepins, while sponson mounted auto cannons ripped into the survivors. Its dark grey shape was broken as a lone figure popped out of the top hatch. Clearly human, it grabbed a heavy machine gun mounted on its pintle, and added to the roar of the guns.

The Daemons turned their full attention to this new threat, but it was not alone. The massive gate was easily a hundred feet high, and out of the top screamed a pair of helicopters. Their design was also human, but not of any class seen before. They unleashed a tidal wave of rockets, auto cannon fire, and some kind of blue pulse from its stubby gun mounts.

The sight of these seemed to snap the rest of the combatants out of their stupor, and the beleaguered Resistance opened up in earnest. Caught between the two forces, the Daemons withered and began to flee.

It was then that infantry began to dash out of the portal, flanked by several eight wheeled vehicles that bore a resemblance to APC’s.

Jacobson, on the back of one of the numerous trucks in the convoy, had pulled out in front. That seemingly insane smile he had been renowned for before the invasion was once again on his features, as he wanted to get into the thick of things.

But as a few figures in particular dashed out of the portal, his grin was replaced by astonishment. Koopaling, who was driving the truck, noticed too, and the charge slowed to a stop.

A hundred feet away, separated by the rapidly diminishing ranks of Daemons, was Demicus.

. . .

Demicus stood facing Kolbe and Jacobson, as the battle continued to rage all around them. He was the first to break the tension, as he moved forward and saluted the officers.

“Sergeant Major Demicus, reporting!” He grinned and lost his professional air. “Did I miss all the fun?”

Kolbe snapped off a crisp salute, while Jacobson screwed up his face in befuddlement.

“At ease, son. Damn, we thought ya’ll were dead!”

“So did we, sir. So did we.”

The conversation was drowned out by the overlapping detonations around the other gates, as demo teams blew the gates. The Daemons had been routed, their morale utterly broken by the appearance of humans that could match their firepower. As Demicus gave the short version of the story, the others in his team ran forward, happy to see their friends again.

But the homecoming was not to last. Only moments after the last of the explosions died away, the sound of shrieking echoed around the valley. Another gate.

This one was smaller than any of the others, more a Daemon door than a gate. Hundreds of guns had the gate squarely in their sights, as both forces spread out back into defensive positions.
But then enemy didn’t come from the gate. The bodies of broken Daemons began to move, seemingly being dragged toward the gate by some unseen force. As they collected, they began to melt like wax, flowing together. Neither the AN or Resistance had seen this before.

Barbaneth wasn’t so naïve to the throes of war. Every one of his force opened fire with everything they had, the super tank’s rounds blowing huge chunks out of the form. After a few rounds however, the tank fell silent. As did the other guns. The form had finished.

It stood roughly seven feet tall, and bore the guise of a man. But everyone there knew it was no man.

It was dressed in a simple red robe, the color of blood. In fact, it probably WAS dried blood. It was trimmed in a deep red, darker than black or so it appeared. Its pale white face was perfectly human, but for the eyes, which shone a pale silver. Its long black hair was tied back behind it.
Demicus had first taken it to be a male, but it appeared as though it was actually a female.

Though many Greater Daemons had refined features that resembles genderless elves from old storybooks, this one had clearly defined bulges on its chest, and had longer eyelashes. It was this fact alone that made Demicus more uneasy than normal. He had never met a female Daemon before.

Not a word was spoken as she stepped forward. It was as if their minds were linked to hers, and they knew her intent.

Kolbe, Jacobson, Demicus, and Silva stepped forward, weapons drawn.

Silva went in first. With practiced ease, he stabbed his rifle forward, bayonet extended…

…and an invisible force extended from her hand, blocking the blow. She then moved her hand down…

…and Silva was impaled. She lifted the man into the air, supported by seemingly nothing. He slowly slid down the invisible blade before she flung his body away. Blood outlined a blade shaped force extending from her hand, before it seeped into her robe sleeve.

Jacobson and Kolbe looked at each other. You could see it on their faces, the single shared thought of, “this is not good…”

Demicus didn’t hesitate however. He tossed his pistol aside and focused on his blade. Even though her own blade was mostly invisible, there were still a few drops of blood on it, it was still just a blade, and that was something he could handle.

His first blow changed this view. While she was only as fast as an average human, she had tremendous strength, and was very skilled with her blade. Steel rang on its unnatural counterpart again and again, becoming a test of endurance. Demicus was actually slightly faster, and his longer blade had her on the defensive, but she was more skilled, and though he knew about how large the blade was, his mind couldn’t quite grasp fighting something invisible.

Strength was open for debate, however. The two clashed blades, straining at each other, trying to judge the others moves. The two didn’t move for a painful moment, then one gained the upper hand. She smiled, and flung her full force at Demicus, sending him back ever so slightly. But that was enough. With a bit more space to work with, she lashed out with her other hand, open palming him in the chest with the strength of a sledgehammer. Demicus was flung several feet away before crashing back to earth, unconscious.

She laughed, a clear sound that didn’t seem to fit her appearance. She turned back to Jacobson and Kolbe…

And ceased to exist.

The super tank, rumbling happily across the battlefield, turned its main gun, and fired. The combination of the shells size, and the fact the shot was nearly point blank, blew the Daemon into little more than chunks, blood spraying over everyone for a hundred feet, while fragments of bone caused terrible lacerations in the knot of Daemons that had been behind her.

Kolbe and Jacobson were knocked flat by the concussive force of the shot, even though the shell itself carried merrily onward into a cluster of lesser Daemons, shredding them with its explosive power.

The death of the She-Daemon left the remaining enemies in tatters, all force and structure gone. They began to flee en masse, throwing weapons aside and howling in despair. The tattered convoy earnestly ripped into the fleeing force, causing more casualties in seconds than in the entire rest of the engagement.

Kolbe drew himself off the ground, coughing from both the fall and the dust from the tanks passing. He swayed slightly as he stood. He was getting too damn old for this…

Barbaneth jogged over, a white cape added to the body armor that his small force wore.

“The gods must smile upon us, ser. But we cannot tarry here, else they will regroup, and return with a fury not seen since the dawn of time.”

Barbaneth’s odd speech, part old English, threw off the General for a heartbeat, but all of what he meant sunk in quickly.

“Son, are you telling me them’ all aint’ it?”

Barbaneth was likewise momentarily thrown off by Kolbe’s southern accent, made worse by the fatigue they all were feeling, but nodded regally.

“Indeed. She was but a minor warlord in a realm that has many. Female’s don’t progress far in a society such as that. It is most puzzling…”

“Puzzling?”

Barbaneth looked over at where she had been. “She was not as grand war master such as many of the others. To be truthful, she had only any followers at all because of her abilities”

“What, was she the only good lookin’ one of the bunch? Hah!”

Barbaneth frowned at Kolbe’s candor. “She was a sorceress. One of immense power. She did not possess an army so much as a retinue of loyal followers, worshipers even. I cannot believe she was so easily killed…”

. . .

While Kolbe and Barbaneth were talking, Demicus was receiving quite a bit of attention.

Returning from the grave, and reappearing at the head of an army, seemed to have transformed him into something larger than life.

The duel with the She-Daemon didn’t help either. He had only been out a few moments, but even that had left him a bit groggy and in no position to do his usual playing down of events and trying to maintain some modesty.

Jacque, Wireboy, and Seph were next to him, while Richardson went to join Jamari and Matt, talking excitedly about something or another. Cheers rang out, as the last of the gunfire faded away.

Demicus Turned red. He hadn’t done anything heroic. He had crashed in a helicopter and managed to limp back, that was all. Jinxie, part of the AN forces rather than the Resistance, was suddenly part of the gang, as everyone wanted to shake the entire teams hands off, regardless of their role.

Jacque was suddenly knocked flat as Ariel, her longtime friend, tried to crush her in a bear hug, but tripped at the last moment. Ariel had been part of the reserve force, and did jobs that often kept the two separated. Demicus saw the two and laughed, as Ariel was his friend as well. He had been the one to secretly order her to the reserves, because even though she was handy with explosives, she didn’t have the same temperament as the other members of his team.

In fact…

He looked around, and his good mood evaporated. There were quite a few missing faces among both AN and Resistance. In fact, the reserves seemed to be more intact than the regular frontline people. Over there was Tony, another of Demicus’s friends who he had had to relegate to soft duty. And then there was Benny, and Sarah. And a dozen other faces whom he couldn’t place names to right then.

The battle was won, but at what cost? How many had they lost? Vehicles stood burning all around, leaving very few still intact, their red glow contrasting the blue of the Daemon gate.

Undead and Trio were making a scene as they began to retell the battle to Wireboy and Seph, as some of the onlookers laughed at their outrageous antics, while others shook their heads and began to sort out the mess left behind.

All this was happening as medics dealt with the wounded, blood and death only a few yards from the merriment. It was even a starker contrast than the red and blue lights that danced all around.

Demicus took advantage of the distraction and rejoined the General, Barbaneth, and Jacobson. Jacque decided to join him, rather than beat Trio into silence as she really wanted to do.

Barbaneth broke into a wide grin. “Demicus! You seem to make a habit of hard landings, ser. I pray not all your travels are so ill inclined. Or should I say, DE-clined?”

He managed to turn even redder. “Yea, that would really suck.”

Barbaneth laughed and stalked off towards his own force, leaving an amused Kolbe.

“Well, seargeant, I’d say you’re in for on hell of a debrief once we get back, and not just about the fact I’ve had to label you dead more than once today. You think your new friends could give us a…”

Kolbe stopped talking. Barbaneth stopped walking. Avron stopped the headlock he had just put Trio in. The fires slowed and began to sputter. The very air stood still.

Everything had gone dark. The sunlight had vanished, as though some god had turned off a lamp in the heavens. Other than faint moans from the wounded, everything was totally silent.

Barbaneth stood still. He had seen power like this once before, on the day he had met the Daemons he now lead. But it had been different, and she was…

“YOU THINK TO KILL ME SO EASILY?!”

The voice erupted from the air, a horrible voice that would have embodied death itself, if only there had been a body to join it. The temperature dropped suddenly, and frost began to cover the road. As if to spite this, the flames in the vehicles grew in size and intensity, making the contrast of the Daemon gates light even more pronounced.

Everywhere, guns were raised, flashlights dug from pockets and placed on helmets and on rifles, and eyes darted back and forth, scanning the unnatural darkness for a target.

Jacque unsheathed her daggers, and Demicus raised his blade once again. Barbaneth tossed Jacobson his rifle, and pulled out some kind of pistol that resembled nothing more than a flintlock.

Kolbe raised his sidearm. “Okay. Would someone mind filling me on here…?”

Barbaneth shook his head.

“Alright… Anyone else care to take a guess?”

“Silly little man… Why tell when I can show?”

The voice that time was more like that of a spoiled little girl. But for a moment, nothing happened.

“He he! Which one…? I know! Lets have FUN!”

The last word was in the previous voice, and unearthly red lightning split the sky like a bloody mirror.

One blast hit right on top of them, tossing aside everyone like bowling pins, blinding and deafening them with its fury. Only Demicus remained upright, sliding back on one knee as he shielded his eyes.

The light faded, but as his senses returned, a new sound met his ears.

Screaming.

He blinked rapidly, shaking his head in a futile attempt to clear it faster. As the world returned to his sight, he could see the source.

Jacque was splayed out on the ground, a pool of blood surrounding her. Not seeping out, but seeping onto her. She was burnt from the lightning, her clothes little more than cinders, but the dark blood matted around her, churning and thickening before becoming red cloth. The same red cloth…

Demicus snapped out of his stupor just in time to see a small ball of light descend out of the air in front of Jacque. Another burst of light drove Demicus back, and sent those who had only begun to struggle upwards back to the ground.

When the light faded, Jacque stood in front of Demicus, her long hair changed into a deep black color, and her eyes sunken looking as the last of the blood pooled around her. Long red robes were draped around her, and the two daggers were now wicked and stained with the blood of an eternity of gleeful slaughter. Whether or not the burns remained he couldn’t tell, but from the way she spun in a circle and giggled like a small child, he assumed they had vanished.
She spoke, the voice a mix of Jacque, the deathly voice, and the child’s.

“So rude of you to take my last play toy away. Its too bad she hadn’t been up to my standards. Maybe this one will do better, hmmm?”

Demicus said nothing. He was frozen to the spot, all measure of certainty and strength gone like a wisp of cloud on the wind. He had no idea what to do, to say, to think…

She laughed, and made the decision for him. Still giggling, she flung herself at him, blades spinning intricate webs of death.

Had she attacked in any other manner, he would have died then and there. As is was, Demicus’s body reacted for him, the muscles that gripped his blade knowing instinctively what to do. As his blade met hers, his mind crashed back into the here and now in a tidal wave of rage. No foul sorceress would kill him today.

Their blades clashed for the second time that day, although no tank would step in now. Back and forth, dancing to the tune of death’s amusement, the two fought. Each blow met air or steel, as Demicus poured every fiber of his being into his sword arm, focused on nothing but her two blades.

He had to disarm her somehow. Knock her flat and bind her, so that Barbaneth could extract the spirit within. He wasn’t about to kill one of his best friends, but neither was he going to let everyone else down and suffer such filth as this fell spirit to remain on this earth.

The dance grew quicker. Her blades swept at his neck, meeting air as he leant back, and with his other hand delivered blow to her abdomen, trying to force her back. She laughed at the blow, and kicked out at him. He leapt back, and once his feet touched ground, leapt forward again, blade first in a classic lunge.

The blade met no resistance. It passed through her defense and laid open the back of her left arm. She reeled in shock, and her blade clattered to the ground as her nerves spasmed in pain. As it fell to earth, it took its old shape again, loosing the wicked edges and stains.

She pulled back, dropping the other dagger and clutching her arm. She seemed to begin closing the wound with her powers…

Then she snapped around, like some force had stuck her in the face. She fell to earth, all traces of mirth gone. She began to thrash again, struggling to rise.

Barbaneth was suddenly at Demicus’s side. “She is weakened from her ‘death’ before! Her spirit cannot maintain its grasp!”

She managed to rise to her feet, stumbling back and forth like a drunkard. Her eyes were unfocused, and she was clearly in pain now. The lightning in the sky began to weaken and flicker, and pale light from the sun strained through the persistent darkness.

Without warning, she stood fully, eyes clear and full of hatred. The small gate she had arrived in before seared back into life. She grinned, and dashed towards the fiery gateway.

“NO! There is no escape for you, sorceress!”

She began to stumble again, loosing control but still managing to keep moving. With a final screech of laughter, she dived into the portal.

Demicus roared in anger, and dove in right after her.

Most everyone was back on their feet and running to the gate now. Without a second glance, Wireboy ran inside, followed closely by Seph. Two AN soldiers followed, along with one of Barbaneth’s men. Kolbe hesitated briefly, and jumped in after them.

But before anyone else could even consider entering, the gate flickered, and died, its wrought iron bars losing whatever force that held them together and falling into a pile of clattering scrap.
Nobody moved.

Barbaneth and Jacobson stood in front of the rubble, lost as to what they should do.

Ariel, Matt, Tony, and Sarah, closest friends of Jacque and Demicus, stared at the pile, as if it would leap back together and everyone would pop out again.

Avron glanced at Trio, ready to shoot him if he did something stupid at a time like this, but no outburst came from his mouth.

Iggy, young brother to Jacque, was unconscious at the feet of one of the medics, who wondered what he would say to the kid when he woke up.

. . .

There were only about two hundred AN troops left. They had taken the worst of the fighting, and with the death of Silva, were now very lost. Jacobson stopped calling them AN and Resistance, and informally joined the Resistance to the AN to try and fix the broken force. Barbaneth had lost about a dozen men and women, and called for an immediate alliance between the two.

The worst loss was morale. For a brief time, there was hope. Now, it seemed dashed again, like a ship against the rocks. Even as Barbaneth’s lone warlock began to reconfigure their gate to somewhere more friendly, to the AN’s capitol of Houston, there was no joyful relief to be found, only a weariness that sapped body and soul.

People gathered scattered equipment, while what vehicles could move ran back to Barbaneth’s enclave and recovered their tech and supplies. In a few hours, everyone was lined up in front of the inert gate, waiting as the lone warlock prepared to take them…

Not home. To a place. Home had been here, only to end in fire and death. No, they weren’t going home.

The warlock finally rose to his feet, and began to focus his energies…

And a shriek echoed throughout the valley. Daemon gates opened all around them, and enemies poured forth.

They were different.

They were uniform, not randomly formed. They marched in immaculate rank and file, long rifles at their shoulders and plates of silver body armor covering their torsos. At the head of the centermost group strode a tall, gaunt figure dressed in green and gold.

His voice slipped into their minds.

Soooooo… You defeated her… How good of you… To save me… The trouble…

The warlock started in fear, and hastily ripped open the gateway, not bothering to take the time to guide it properly. He willed it to take them to safety, but before he could tell it Houston, the voice entered his mind again, ripping apart his mind from the inside out, his training so inferior to that of this new warlord of Daemons.

The convoy raced into the portal, as thousands of guns rose to stop them.

…

The last person in line had fallen. He rose to dive in, but just then the portal closed, sealing him on the other side. He turned, only to find a tidal wave of enemies rushing at him.

He didn’t run. He snapped his bayonet to his rifle, and charged them. He lived for three minutes, single-handedly killing thirty of the enemy, before being cut down by a dozen shots at once.
But none now live who ever witnessed the unnamed soldiers final act of bravery.

None, save one.

(end of book one)

--look for book two, coming soon--