It always astounds me how mankind never fails to find a way to bring disaster upon itself. Even the most noble of people and goals are easily manipulated by those of less than reputable intent. Our species has brought itself to the brink
of extinction and back time and time again- somehow always managing to keep from taking a blind leap over the edge...though I’m not entirely sure if that’s a positive thing.
    Though I’ll probably never know for sure- I’m growing old and Minnesota is literally a world away. As old as I am, the tale I’m about to share with you, my son, happened…. after my time, but from what I’ve learned on my own and been told by
others, earth is gone. Well, not gone…occupied let’s say. And all because of good intentions twisted and corrupted by unscrupulous beings lusting for power.
We aren’t without hope, however. This tale isn’t just my own, you see; in fact I’m just a minor character in the grand scheme of things. But- it’s a story of hope, and I’m the only one left to pass it on. as you too will pass it on, my son., in hopes that through this knowledge, we can someday return home and wrest it from the iron grip of the daemon king.


    “Negotiations have failed today between members of the LAPD’s anti-terrorist division and the members of the extremist group who had taken over the recently constructed nuclear plant just outside of Glendale, California- a suburb of Los Angeles. The siege lasted sixteen days, and ended with police taking violent action against the terrorists, who were neutralized but not before they managed to-“

-Click-

       “The Muslim community is in shock at the burning of yet another mosque in downtown Chicago yesterday evening. Religious leaders are crying out for the swift apprehension of the arsonists, who are still believed to be at large. A group calling itself ‘The order of his righteous hammer’ claimed responsibility for the attack early this morning. Law enforcement officials have yet to release the names of those killed in the-“

-Click-

       “Gas prices continue to rise nationwide, reaching as high as ten dollars a gallon in some east-coast cities. Experts estimate that the countries oil reserves will be exhausted within the next-“

-Click-

       “ -year has passed since the official cease-fires in combat zones on nearly every continent, yet the nations policy makers STILL have yet to sign any definite peace treaties. Why, I ask you, has the president passed up over ten different proposals from the Iranian government alone- why aren’t our boys home? Our sons, brothers, and fathers are still overseas when there is absolutely no reason for it. I say, bring them home now, once and for-“

-Click-

“-evah! The end is nigh, brothas! Repent now, can I get a hallelujah? Repent- or burn in the lake of fire forevah!”

-Click-

 The image of the evangelistic demagogue winked out into nothing. With an exasperated sigh, Adam set the remote control down onto the worn, paint flecked surface of the small end table next to his couch. “Maybe he’s right.” he paused to light a cigarette, and tuck it in between his dry, paper-like lip. He made a disgruntled noise when he noticed he had emptied yet another pack, his third today. “The whole world is goin’ to hell; and humanity is whistling a merry little tune as we
bliviously march downward- passing out fliers even.”
       The middle-aged man took a long drag on his cigarette, and exhaled a cloud of billowing smoke. “Maybe I’m just delaying the inevitable, guarding a castle of sand against the rising tide. Will HADES even make a difference? We’re locked in a downward spiral, circling the drain and too few of us are fighting the current. We’re fucked.” His gnarled hand drifted to the black patch that concealed the empty socket that once contained his left eye. He traced the long, puckered scar that ran the length of his face with his index finger, as he often did when deep in contemplation. The scar provided him with a constant reminder of the darker side of mankind, and his own brush with death.
       In his younger years, he’d served as an infantry platoon commander during the initial brushfires that had grown and consumed the world for nearly a decade. Adam was wounded when a piece of shrapnel shattered the scope of his rifle, piercing
his eye and turning the left half of his face into hamburger. The wound rendered him combat ineffective, and the army handed
him his medical discharge the same day he was awarded a purple heart.
       Adam, Doctor Adam-Alexander Wiessman, took full advantage of the benefits entitle to him as a “disabled veteran”.
Within seven years, he was a college graduate and prominent physicist. Meanwhile, the war continued to rage, oblivious to his absence.
       In 2056, he was awarded the Nobel Peace prize for his work in developing an alternate energy source that would be readily available to everyone on earth. He and his colleagues toiled endlessly to find a way to capture and study anti-matter particles. The product of their research was a two hundred-page thesis detailing a hypothetical fusion process involving them. The thesis stated that a reactor utilizing this dark matter would provide an immense amount of energy with virtually no adverse effect on the environment.
       With the world’s oil supply waning, the world’s superpowers (those allied with the United States) grew increasingly interested in his work, and founded a project they dubbed HADES, or The Humanitarian Adoption of Dark-matter Energy Systems.
The programs public relations department thought the name poetic, “pulling mankind back from the clutches of the underworld” was the motto plastered all over the official website. Wiessman thought the name stupid and wanted to know who the genius was
that came up with all the damn acronyms.
“Adam, come to bed.” His wife’s voice drifted from the single bedroom of the small, hole-in-the-wall, apartment, interrupting his internal monologue.
       “I’m coming, dear.” Adam said. He finished his cigarette and snubbed it out in the ashtray next to the remote. No sense in losing sleep over it, he thought, it’s all out of my hands after they start up the generators tomorrow.

                                                      . 2 . 2 .

       The department of energy compound covered an area of over thirteen square miles of Nevada desert. The civilian employees called it Camp HADES, but the marines charged with guarding the top-secret facility just called it boring- among other things.
       “Right between bum-fuck Egypt and the ass crack of nowhere.” A marine sergeant said to a group of privates recently assigned to the security detachment, “Quite nice actually,” this drew a few chuckles, “Fortunately, the big show’s tomorrow- so you probably won’t be here too long. Unfortunately, tomorrow night is also New Years Eve, and liberty is secured until further notice. I’ll make sure to write a letter home to your mommies telling them not to expect you home for dinner.” He grinned, but none of the other marines assembled saw any humor in the situation.
 
                                                     . 3 . 3 .


       Later that evening, Sergeant Miller was sitting in what passed for a NCO club at Camp HADES. He was drinking a beer at a table tucked away in a back corner of the dimly lit Quonset hut, waiting for his food. “Just gonna have a few to calm my
nerves,” he said to himself,” tomorrow’s gonna be a big day.” The thought of all those news cameras staring him down made the
combat-veteran nervous, much as he hated to admit it.
       He mentally reviewed the next day’s schedule. Zero-three-thirty formation, zero-five was the security brief, break for chow, then at zero-seven he’d have the “privilege” of being present for the activation of the HADES reactor. What bullshit,
he thought, why can’t they just turn it on and leave me out of it.
       “Well, if anything goes wrong, maybe I’ll be sterile for the rest of my life and shoot blanks…that’d be a blessing” he muttered darkly to himself, and drained the last of his beer.
                                                     . 4 . 4 .


       All was darkness, heavy and oppressive like a thick wool blanket. Father Robert Mulford, High Paladin of The Order of His Righteous Hammer, knelt on the cold stone floor with his head bowed in reverence. Despite the absence of any light source
in the chamber, he was clearly visible. His red and whit robes and facial tattoo’s glowed with an inner fire. The priest was
a large, muscular man of middle years; with a face that was made much older by the scars that spider webbed his features. A
red crucifix tattoo dominated over half his face.
       “You have done well, my son.” A deep, booming voice said, “By purging the heretical followers of Mohammed, you have
proven your loyalty to me, and the purity of your faith.”
       Mulford bowed his head further in a gesture of humility, which also conveniently held the fanatical grin slowly creeping across his face. “Lord, I am ever your humble servant.”
           “I know this, my son, and so I have one final, noble task for he who will become my greatest martyr.”
“I-I do thy will unquestioningly, Lord. Simply give it voice that my feeble mortal ears may hear it, and my mind and body obey.” Robert struggled to speak through the flood of fanaticism welling up inside him.
“The faithless men of science in your world have unwittingly engineered a machine that they believe will bring forth a new golden age for mankind; they do not comprehend the subtleties of the device, however, and are blind to the damage their
creation causes to all manner of things holy. You will destroy it.”
“Lord, how can this be-“The paladin began.
“SILENCE” The power behind the word knocked the man on his back and blurred his vision, “Do you question me? Perhaps I was mistaken, my son.”
“No, Please!” Robert begged, “I am worthy, make me your blessed instrument in bringing this world into the light.”
After a long pause, the voice replied, “Very well, Paladin. You will do just that. Now I will prepare you for your…quest.”
       “Thank you, Lord.” Mulford replied hurriedly, eager to please his master.
       “Remember, my son,” It said,” Pain is but the sin being cleansed from your soul.”
       The Priests cries of anguish nearly drowned out the voice of his unseen master. He let out one last gasping scream, and then fell to the floor, unconscious.
                                                        5. 5.


       Sergeant Miller awoke suddenly, bolting upright in his bed. He was trembling, and sweat was dripping from his face. He threw his blanked aside and stumbled to the door of his room without bothering to get fully dressed; it was warm enough in the desert, even at night, for him to be comfortable in only boxer shorts.
       “Fuck,” he gasped, “what the hell was that about?” Miller reached into his room and groped around in his room for his half-empty pack of cigarettes. He opened the box and jammed a crumpled smoke in between his lips; then threw the rest onto his bed.
The sergeant smoked slowly. He was more focused on remembering the details of the nightmare that so violently brought him back to consciousness. Miller recalled no specifics of the dream, only a deep, roiling darkness that swirled like a storm
cloud, and ominous laughter. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he had the impression that something was profoundly
wrong.
      “Evening, sergeant,” Miller was so deep in thought that he hadn’t heard the private approach him,” sick ‘tat, looks
new.” The gangly southern kid pointed at his midsection as he walked past.
       The older marine was about to ask the private what he was talking about, until he looked to where the young man’s finger had pointed. He went pale and his jaw slackened in amazement. A large crucifix was branded on his stomach. The cross
was outlined in black, and shaded with a deep red the hue of the fever-flushed cheeks of a child. It seemed to shift and swirl in the dim light. Miller practically dove into his room, going after the pack of cigarettes lying on his bed.
       “Hrm,” The private remarked,” must be PTSD.”

                                               Chapter 2: Cataclysm
                                             7:00 AM Dec 31st 2037 AD


    Doctor Wiessman and squinted his eyes in the harsh glare of camera flashes as he approached a wooden podium that bristled with microphones. Just a few feet behind the platform on which he tread was the main control building for the HADES reactor, the nexus of the entire encampment. He was flanked on either side by two marines wearing full dress uniforms and carrying loaded rifles, a sad but necessary precaution in light of the recent spike of terrorist activity.
    Adam noted with mild interest that the assembled marines on the podium were sweating heavily and fidgeting slightly in short slow movements that were indiscernible from a distance. The doctor attributed it to a combination of heat, nervousness, and a preemptive celebration the night before. Of course they’re hung-over, He thought; Damn Jarheads can’t stay off the bottle for just one night. One marine, a sergeant, looked so pale that he was nearly transparent; Wiessman was concerned that the man could fall over at any moment. Good, maybe that’ll distract the press from my speech.
    Suddenly, he was behind the podium, staring into a horde of press correspondents and photographers. He smiled his most amiable, plastic smile and began his speech. “Greetings,” He said,” It is a pleasure and an honor to stand here before you today. As I’m sure you know, in just a few minutes we’ll be activating the HADES reactor. Our generator, along with its sister plants in Germany and Japan, will put mankind on the right track to resolve the energy crisis once and for all. I find it appropriate to point out that we will be ushering in a new golden age of co-prosperity for mankind on the cusp of the New Year; tonight’s celebrations will be illuminated by lights powered by this trio of reactors. And now, I’m afraid that I have some work to do; Mister Lynam here will be able to answer your questions.”
    He took a step backwards, turning his back to the press mob. Adam descended the staircase and passed through the automatic doors leading to the compounds nerve center, ignoring the shouted questions of the press.
                                              
                                                  .      .    2   .      .

    Miller hardly heard the speech, the doctor’s words were just background noise for the pain and disorientation wracking his body and blurring his vision. Slightly too late, he realized that the speech was over, and remember to bark the order to his detail telling them to face left and file down the stairs alongside Doctor Weisseman. It took every ounce of strength left in his plague-ridden body, and collapse into a ball on the podium.
    He felt a surreal detachment from his environment, as if his consciousness was drifting away into some dark corner of his mind, for what he did not know.
    A reedy voice reverberated inside his mind, “Fear not, my son. Your service to the lord will be remembered, and you shall be numbered among the greatest martyrs in the history of man!”

                                                     .     .   3.    .


    Doctor Weissman trembled with anticipation as he walked down the brightly lit corridor. He barely suppressed the urge to fiddle with the strap of his eye patch, as he often did when anxious or excited. No, no, He thought, Gotta be serious, Adam. Can’t have history remember you as the one-eyed guy who played with his eye patch all the time can we? With a slight chuckle, he noted that he’d fallen into step with the marines accompanying him down the hallway. Old habits die hard.
    Adam-Alexander took a deep, steadying breath and stepped in front of the door to the control room. After a brief retinal scan to, the door slid into the top of its frame with a slight whish noise. The doctor crossed the threshold into the brilliantly lit control room.
    Once inside, his anxiety dematerialized into dust, and was swept away by the raging winds of anticipation. The world around him was abruptly clarified, making him feel like he had just been given a better set of glasses. With a short, curt nod to his colleagues, he moved to his terminal at the far end of the room. He clapped his hands together, and then rubbed them together like a man battling frostbite. “Alright folks, this is it, moment of truth, everyone ready?” The other scientists uttered brief responses that, yes, they were ready as well. “Okay then, let’s do this…initiate fusion and gravitational containment field.”
    A pale green spark materialized behind the double paned windows that afforded the scientists a view of their work in progress. They continued to press buttons, giving status reports to Doctor Wiessman at each stage of the process. Meanwhile, the green spark grew in size, and started to emit arcs of energy, giving it the appearance of a miniature star.
    “Dark Matter condition is Blue.”
    “Rodger, injecting particles,” The quiet reply sounded from the opposite side of the small chamber. The room’s lights flickered for a moment as the speaker turned an oversized dial all the way clockwise.
    “Activating containment field,” a bespectacled man said as he pressed a sequence of keys on his terminal.
    “Good to go, going hot in three…. two…. one.”  Doctor Wiessman pushed a large green button with his right palm. On the other side of the windows, the spark had become a raging sphere of errant energy, barely contained by the artificial gravity fields holding it in place. “Now, we just cross our fingers and hope that field holds.”
    Against the wall, standing to the right of the door, was Sergeant Miller. Deep inside his mind, his true self was cowering a corner and allowing Father Mulford to drive his body like a cheap rental. He had readily relinquished controls when the priest gave him promises that he would not need his body for long, anything to be rid of the voice of the corrupted man of God whispering to him in his mind. Without warning, he began to convulse, arms flailing at unnatural angles and his eyes rolling insanely in their sockets. His fingers clenched and twitched madly, causing his rifle to clatter to the floor.

“Yess….” The sibilant, high pitched voice emitting from his mouth was not his own.
    Startled by the sudden breach of the control room’s quietude, Wiessman first looked over his shoulder, and then fully turned to face the Marine who had so offended him. “What the fuck?” he said, so startled by the man’s bizarre affliction that he dismissed all pretences of proper language for a scientific milestone.
    Miller’s torso swiveled on his hips in a violent, jerking fashion and with a cry of anguish he threw his upper body backwards, snapping his spine with a ch-c-chick and turning his normally vertical body into an unnatural right-angle. “So I looked, and behold, a pale horse,” His stomach began to swell grotesquely, popping the buttons from his dress-coat of his uniform. “So I looked, and BEHOLD! A PALE HORSE,” he cackled insanely and tore at his white undershirt beneath his uniform, rending it to shreds and exposing the glowing mark on his abdomen. “And, the NAME OF HIM who sat upon it was DEATH,” he drew out the last word, sending flecks of foam flying across the room.
    The scientists and soldiers were stunned into inaction by the spectacle, unable to tear their eyes from the shocking sight. The marine to the left Miller had the presence of mind to raise his rifle and aim in on his convulsing comrade. As he pressed the trigger, the sergeant’s hand flailed up, as if he were trying to catch the round as it exited the barrel. There was a click of the firing pin, and the rifle’s barrel imploded as if it were crushed by an unseen fist, the rifle misfired and shattered, sending fragments of metal screaming around the small room, scything through the rooms other occupants and dropping them to the floor. Only the possessed marine and Dr. Wiessman were left standing, Miller continued to rant on, heedless to the screams of his victims.
    “…A PALE HORSE,” he continued,” AND THE NAME OF HIM WHO SAT UPON IT WAS DEATH!” Miller gave a final, ear piercing death cry. His stomach began to bulge outward, giving him the swollen belly of a pregnant woman. He clawed at his eyes with fingers twitching in agony, bursting the twin orbs and tearing gashes in the flesh of his face. His voice took on a gurgling accent as blood poured out of his mouth, spilling down his face to land in red splotches on the tile flooring.
    Doctor Wiesman stood frozen, transfixed by the horrendous sight of the marine sergeant tearing himself apart. He made an attempt to shout for help, but only managed a pathetic, mewing sound.
    The tattered form of Miller began to rise slowly from the floor, and his perpendicular torso rotated leisurely in place as his feet left the floor. The rooms other occupant fell backwards onto the console, and clutched it like a drowning
victim to a piece of jetsam. The sergeant’s screams abruptly ceased when a gnarled hand burst out from the growing bulge on
his midsection, gesticulating wildly, seeking warm flesh in which to bury its long, talon-like, nails. The hand became a
forearm, then a shoulder. The tear made by the hand that split his stomach vertically expanded slowly, creeping towards his sternum and pelvis.
    The sergeant’s body gave one, final twitch, and then exploded outwards, repainting the rooms wall with his innards. The ceiling light flickered out and the illuminated buttons of the consoles dimmed, plunging the room into darkness and depriving the hyperventilating doctor of his sight. For a moment, there was only the sound of Wiseman’s ragged breath and a sickening, meaty noise when larger chunks of flesh fell to the floor from the walls and ceiling.
    After what seemed like an eternity, the plants emergency lighting came to life bathing the room in a reddish orange light. Doctor Wiessman jumped, startled. A pale, tattooed face and the crimson robed priest attached to it appeared just inches from his face. He could feel the killer’s warm, moist breath brush softly against his skin, leaving him with a sick, grimy sensation.
    Father Mulford tittered madly and raised the late sergeants discarded rifle, bringing it around sideways to press against Doctor Wiseman’s temple, causing him to promptly piss himself.
    “Who- who are you?” Doctor Wiessman stammered.
    “You shall never know, I’m afraid,” Mulford said in a deceptively sweet tone. The paladin’s head cocked to the side, and his trigger finger twitched, the point blank shot splattering the genius’ brains across the Plexiglas window.


                        .    4    .        4    .


     A short female reporter stood before a channel ten news camera, just outside the fence surrounding the reactors main building. “I’m live, inside the HADES compound; the air is full of anticipation for the unveiling of the revolutionary new power plant. It’s been an hour since Doctor Wiessman entered the reactor, and we still have no word from inside, but rest assured, channel seven gets the news first, and delivers it fast!”
    A rotund, balding, man clad in a white lab coat came charging from the reactor’s entrance, his coat flapping behind him like the trail of a comet. His face was a blood splattered mask of terror as he screamed the only word he could manage to articulate in his shocked state, “Run!” he bellowed over and over, flailing his arms as he ran, shooing off the crowds of reporters, dignitaries, and military personnel.
    “You better be getting this, John.” The reporter said, her voice dripping with malice and leaving the camera man no disillusion of job security should he fail to record the unfolding events.
    The fleeing scientist sprinted up to where the pair of reporters stood, sweaty and pale-faced with fear. He shoved the woman with the microphone aside and shrieked at the camera’s reflective lenses. “Get the fuck out-“He was cut short as the sky above the compound grew dark. Grey, roiling clouds swirled overhead, blotting out he sun and deepening the unnatural darkness. The ground shook with an ear-splitting roar, accompanied by terrified screams of people caught inside the compound. The walls of the control building bulged outward, swelling, and then bursting apart in a spray of red-hot metal. Floating above the blackened earth where the building had rested was a luminous black sphere, infused with green arcs of energy that streaked out towards any unfortunate soul caught nearby.
    The sphere expanded in short, jerking bursts, each growth spurt releasing a shockwave that sent media vans and reporters careening through the dust filled air. Miraculously, the channel seven camera man kept his footing, just long enough to transmit the image of the deadly sphere pushing outward in one final, devastating burst, overtaking the unfortunate news man and reducing him, and his camera, to ashes.

                                       Chapter 3: Angelic Manifestations
                                  8:30pm-12:30am, Jan 8th-Jan 9th 2038 AD


        President Becker sat behind his desk in the recently reconstructed presidential office of the white house. His predecessor and campaign partner had been slain in that very same room by an individually targeted assassin rocket, launched by unknown assailants. At the moment, Becker almost envied his former colleague. The political shitstorm brought on by the catastrophic failure of the H.A.D.E.S reactor had his phone ringing nearly non stop for the last week, and the press camped outside the capitol building’s gate were on the verge of knocking down his door.
    “So you’re telling me that it’s been over a week, and you still can’t tell me anything new?” The president said, frustration ringing clearly in his voice.
    “Well, like I said-“
    Becker slammed his fists down upon the wooden surface of his desk, knocking down a frame containing a family portrait. “I know what you said; ‘Some sort of major error in the rector’s safety measures’, blah blah blahddy fuckin’ blah. What I need is concrete information that actually means something to the average American,” he made a psh noise when he exhaled and took another deep breath to continue his angry tirade,” to them, computer failure is not a valid reason why they’re still paying their electric bills. Oh yeah, and why have of Nevada got fuckin’ wasted!”
    The target of the president’s ire, a small framed, balding department of energy representative, shifted uncomfortably in his cheap suit and tie; suddenly he felt very small. He flinched each time the commander in chief emphasized a shouted word with short, chopping gestures and gave only soft, whimpering replies. After the president finish his tirade, he waved the little man out of his office with an absent shooing gesture, to which he gladly complied.
    Once the door clicked shut, Becker groaned and held his head in his hands, massaging his temples with his fingertips. “I need a drink,” He mumbled to himself. The president stood and moved to a leather chair and end table across the room, upon which rested a half-empty bottle of whiskey/ He poured himself a generous dose, and then flopped exhaustedly into the chair, his limbs limp from fatigue.
    There was a light knocking on the door. Becker tossed back the glass of whiskey in one gulp. “Shit,” he muttered, then more loudly, “Enter.”
    A grizzled, battle worn man wearing an olive drab officers uniform stepped across the threshold of the office, then shut the door behind him with a gentleness and care unbecoming of a man who so often ordered young men to perform acts of violence. He nodded politely to the still lounging president, and made his way to the chair previously occupied by the squirming man. He patiently waited for his commander and chief to take his own seat behind the desk before speaking.
    “Good evening, mister president.” He said; his voice was deep and as gritty as the desert battlefields on which he first gained renown as a formidable and insightful commander.
    “Maybe for you, General Clark; what do you have for me?” he asked, not allowing himself to hope for any useful tidbit of information.
    “Well sir, we’ve finished establishing the quarantine around the blast site. Since the debris cloud has stopped…expanding, our job has been a lot easier and we finally managed to construct a decent perimeter. Also, most of the suburbs outside of Las Vegas have been evacuated in order to establish a rear supply point for our boys on the line. The locals don’t appreciate it, but it had to be done.”
    “At least someone’s doing their job,” the president replied sarcastically,” anything else?”
    “Ah, well, the data we’re getting from our eyes in the sky are giving us some unusual data. The satellite cameras register the affected area as…nothing.”
    “Nothing?”
    “Yes sir, a blank spot on the map essentially.” Clark explained,” Infrared, thermal imaging, anything we try gives us the same basic image of a giant grey smudge on the earths surface.”
    Becker sighed, “Odd, anything else?”
    “Still no signs of survivors, sir, and any scouts we send in to search don’t return, other than that, nothing.”
    “Alright, well…keep me posted, I want to know right away if anything changes.”
                    
                           
                           .   2   .    2    .

    
    Private first class Haase threw down his entrenching shovel, thrusting the spade deep into the mud. The young marine was thoroughly exhausted, having been ordered around by his squad leader for nearly thirty hours non stop to prepare his
squads portion of the defensive perimeter surrounding what was being called the “Smog Zone” by his comrades in the trenches. The work, lack of sleep, and the weight of his bulky combat gear, had him worn out to the point of near collapse. He was
finally done, though and could rest for awhile-or so he thought. He flopped limply onto the muddy trench floor, lifted his gas mask off of his face so that it rested atop his head like a baseball cap, and lit a cigarette. Haase closed his eyes and sighed, spewing a cloud of smoke as he exhaled, its grey haziness drifting in front of his face and obscuring it in a fluidic, shifting way.
    A rough hand grabbed him by the collar of his flak jacket, and jerked him roughly to his feet, disturbing his brief repose. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’, Haase?” Corporal Rojas’s distorted voice assaulted him through a filtered mask.
    The junior marine’s cigarette fell from his lips, landing in the wetness at his feet and extinguishing. “N-nothin’, Corporal.” He stammered.
    “Bullshit!” the squad leader bellowed, sharply enunciating each syllable of the curse; and shoved him backwards into the mud, “Who the fuck told you that you could take your mask off, you stupid fuckin’ boot?”
    “No one, Corporal.” PFC Haase replied, clasping his hands behind his back in the position of parade rest, a sign of respect.
    Rojas kicked him hard in the chest, sending him crashing into the semi-solid wall of the defensive fortification. “What’re you thinking Haase? You never stand at parade rest in the field; are you trying to get me killed?”
    Haase gasped and struggled to regain his breath before he could manage to wheeze a reply, “I-I wasn’t thinking, Corporal, I was tired.”
    “Good bitch,” Rojas replied, his sadistic amusement evident even through the mask obscuring his face, “I was going to let you get some rest, but now…you’re gonna go get a box of claymores from the ammo dump, then set them out there,” he swept
a gloved hand in the direction of the no-mans land beyond the lip of the trenches, “all of them…go!”
    Private First Class Haase scrambled away down the trench, breathing heavily and internally cursing his foolishness and the maliciousness of his squad’s leadership.


                                                     .     3  .  3     .


     “Good evening, I’m here tonight to speak to you all about the events that occurred in Nevada earlier this week,” Becker sat behind his desk once more, staring into media cameras and trying not to make it obvious that he was reading from a teleprompter, “And to assure you that you government is successfully containing and counteracting the radiation resulting from the disastrous failure of the H.A.D.E.S. reactor. Search and rescue missions are running ‘round the clock to find, and bring home, those caught in the afflicted regions. All we ask of you, the American people, is to please remain calm, and cooperate with-“
    The window behind the president’s desk exploded inward, showering the room with shards of glass. The cameramen lining the back wall of the room ducked, shaking the cameras and training their lenses away from the commander in chief and aiming in on the offices ceiling. When the newsmen recovered from the shock and fixed their lenses once more upon the trembling president.
    Becker was sitting behind his glass covered desk, pale faced and with lips trembling; none in the room mocked their nations leader for his extreme reaction, for an angel knelt upon his devastated desk.
   “-And cooperate with federal authorities as we remedy the crisis’ we currently face.” He managed to finish before he collapsed face first upon the wooden work surface, overwhelmed by the divine sight.
    The thin, wiry figure rose from its knees and stood resplendent upon the desk. Feathers rustled softly against one another as it adjusted its large, brilliantly white wings, folding them tight against its back. The beings body was entirely overed in a downy layer of fur that was more a complete, swirling, void of color than any true black hue. The angelic creatures head was a perfect, unblemished sphere, sporting a single eye that split its face vertically. Framing either side of the main eye were two smaller orbs of a glistening, blood red hue, devoid of any discernible pupils or purpose. It seemed to gather itself before speaking in a tone that was beautiful and silky, yet oddly unisex.
    “I am Zander, son of Callisto the frost. I bear tidings from the goddess, and her message is thus; the meddling of the earthborn has brought your world to the cusp of oblivion. Your breed is entering a new age of darkness and fear,” Zander said, “All the earthborn must forget their petty infighting and unify or be consumed by the flames and fangs of the dark lord Rai-Als E’tah. Prepare for the coming tide.”
    Without warning, Zander the angel unfurled his wings leapt backwards through the fanged maw of the ruined window. Its slender form receded into the dusky distance, leaving behind only a scattering of gently floating feathers.
Chapter 4: Onset
    “Stupid,” Haase scolded himself as he placed the final remote charge into place “the hell was I thinking? Well…its done now.” Before returning to the trenches, he took a moment to catch his breath and survey his surroundings. His battalion cleared two hundred meter patch of ground between their position and the ominous gray-green cloud that still lingered even now, a week after the disaster.
    Nearly all the marines in his platoon had large blisters and calluses on their hands from the backbreaking labor of constructing their elaborate defenses. The no mans land was almost beautiful in its brutal complexity; a maze of razor wire, mines, and obstacles designed to disrupt and scatter an enemy attack as well as corral them into brutal, cramped pathways crisscrossed with heavy machinegun fire stood between the bizarre haze and the marine trenches. I definitely wouldn’t have to be the one to go charging through that mess, Haase thought. He’d heard the stories passed down from the patriarchs of his family, every male member of his family having fought in wars as far back as the century gone conflict referred to as “’nam” n his high school history courses, and had no trouble imagining the carnage such an intricate defense could bring upon a human assault.
    The young marine sighed and began to make his way back to the trenches, clearing his mind of the troubling thoughts with an exhale. Wait a sec, Haase paused, having thought he heard a voice on the wind, deep as thunder. He strained his ears,
unconsciously leaning towards what he subconsciously already knew to be the source.
    The fog.
    There it was again, the deep roiling voice, drifting across the desolate, industrial landscape, he was sure it was real now and cupped a gloved hand to discern the voices message. As he listened, the sound of rolling thunder cascaded into his mind.
    “Abandon all hope,” The fog spoke to him with a voice like a choir of the damned,” Kill yourself now and spare yourself the pain.”
    Overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his dread, Haase fell to his knees. In vain, he willed himself to stand, to flee and run home. His legs refused to obey his minds desperately screamed commands and he remained frozen, eyes transfixed
upon the now- churning mass of fog in the distance. The world around him gradually slipped away, leaving behind only his trembling body and the ominous anomaly. Just as he was on the verge of succumbing totally to the will of the mist, his numbed eardrums were assaulted by the crackling of radio chatter emanating from a radio receiver tucked into his ear.
    “Contact! Fox one alpha reporting a crowd coming out from the dead-zone. Requesting to go hot.
    “Rodger Fox one alpha, you are clear to engage.”
    Weapons fire crackled from the trenches behind the kneeling marine, and the earth around him erupted in puffs of dirt as red-hot lead screamed through the air and burrowed into the earth.  Haase didn’t move, couldn’t force him to flee. The
fogs rumbling siren call had left him completely bereft of all sense of self, only a small portion of his consciousness still actively struggled to remain aware, but, like a drowning man, that too was slipping under, emerging weaker each time it surfaced
.     “Hasse!” Rojas’ voice roared in his earpiece,” Get the fuck out of there!” The sound of his idolized, yet feared, team leaders voice abruptly wrenched his floundering mind from the mesmerizing sea that was the voice of the cloud. Haase
tore his gaze off the mist, blinked several times to remoisten his eyes, and wished he’d simply killed himself.
    Shambling, rotting forms shuffled en-masse from the mist, wearing rotting remnants of clothing and armor that gave a glimpse of their former lives. Skeletal roman legionnaires charged alongside crusaders clad head to toe in rusted metal
plates and waving moth-bitten banners. Fallen Vietnam-era marines shambled alongside union and confederate rifleman. Military casualties from every bloody conflict in mankind’s war torn history descended upon him, crying out in voices made raspy by dust and decay, demanding blood. Demanding his blood.
    Haase fled, sprinting through gaps in the defensive barriers and ducking low to avoid being caught in the glowing web of tracer fire crisscrossing madly just inches above his head. Inexplicably, the only thought in his frantic mind was the irony of being trapped and killed within the obstacles he himself had help constrict.  His vision grew dim and distant and his breathing ragged from the additional strain of sprinting while wearing his filtered gasmask, lending a hazy, hellish appearance to the razor wire maze. Without warning, he tripped over a low hanging line of parachute cord. Tripwire. The thought entered his mind just as an explosion blossomed behind him, throwing him through the air for several feet before landing face first in a tangle of chemical survival gear, limbs, and bandoliers. The pain and shock snapped his dazed mind back into focus, as well as the metallic tang of blood spilling forth from his mouth into his shattered, dripping gasmask.
    With a groan of pain, the young marine rolled onto his back to face his encroaching doom. The anguish caused by the movement causing him to vomit thick, ropey strands of his life’s blood. The cracked lenses of his mask split and multiplied his view, giving him the rare point of view of a fly facing imminent destruction at the hands of an angry homeowner.
    “Well, this is it.” He gurgled around the blood pouring from his mouth.  His mangled legs were bleeding and shattered beyond any hope of mending, his platoon’s navy corpsman repeatedly told the junior marines about the fatal nature of such a wound.
    Rather than filling him with dejection, the thought filled him with fiery determination and rage. Rage at the monsters bearing down on him, Rojas for sending him out on a punishment detail, and the carelessness that landed him there in the first place. “Might as well go down fighting,” Haase looked to the ground, where his rifle lay, dust covered but intact, with a groan of effort, he retrieved it and leveled it one handed at the oncoming horde and opened fire, aiming in with the cold ruthlessness unique to a man with nothing to lose. His own gunfire added to the wall of screaming lead tearing ineffectively through the inexorably advancing throng.
    The last input his dying senses sent to his brain was the strong, bitter scent of pure corruption and unbarred hatred. Flitting in and out of the crowd were lithe, emaciated gray forms. They broke out from the crowd, streaking ahead of the front ranks and bellowing unintelligibly. Their scrawny bodies were the gray hue of rain-heavy storm clouds, and they move in a rapid, jerking manner that gave them the appearance of a man dancing below a rapidly flashing light. Even from the distance, Haase could see their glowing red eyes boring into his very soul, promising a miserable, torment filled afterlife.


                                .  2  .  2  .

    Haase’s blurry image shook violently in the eyepiece of Rojas’ sniper scope. The junior marine’s team leader stood in a high tower over looking the killing fields below. His eyes were watering with stinging tears as he saw his underling overwhelmed and ripped apart by the onrushing hordes. Try as he might, he couldn’t force himself to pull the trigger, though he knew that to take such a shot would mean a mercifully swift death for his mangled and dying comrade in arms, his fingers simply wouldn’t respond to the command of his mind. And so, he stared, frozen, as Haase was swept away in a tide of teeth, claws, gray skin, and rotting flesh.
    With Haase gone, Rojas gradually reconnected with reality. The sights and sounds of the raging battle gradually faded in. Screaming, he was screaming, he realized. His hoarse cry of denial and anguish died in his throat, and he took a moment to reorient himself with the state of the floundering defense.
    The trenches below and surrounding his over watchtower was a chaotic, swirling maelstrom of death; portions of the marine firing line had already been overrun by the swiftly running, gray skinned harbingers of death, who were proving to be devastating adversaries in the close quarters of the trenches. Rojas shouldered his rifle and began firing blindly into the throng, only pausing to reload his weapon. This was a losing battle, and he knew it- his only consolation that each shot from his high caliber rifle shattered through several enemies at a time, causing them to explode into clouds of gray ash that contributed to the general disarray below him. Despite the ferocity of the defending men, they were being cut down in droves, and soon the monstrous horde was swarming about the legs of his tower, clawing and chewing away at its steel supports as if it was made of paper.
    “Steel falcon, this is fox one actual, stand by for fire mission, over.” Rojas whirled about, startled and having thought that he was the towers sole occupant, to see his platoon commander, a fresh lieutenant, holding a radio handset to his ear, a maddened expression twisting his face into a grotesque mask of terror. There was a pause as whoever was on the receiving end of the transmission acknowledged him then, “Requesting willie pete rounds twenty meters north of predestinated target whiskey tango one zero two, how copy?”
    There was a long pause, during which slow comprehension crept through Rojas’s battle fatigued mind. He moved closer to the lieutenant just as he said, “Rodger out.”
    The corporal jammed a finger into his lieutenants stiff flack jacket, glaring at his commander with glistening, yet baleful eyes.” Sir, that targets right on top of us,” he bellowed, “get on the net and call them off or we’re all dead.” Without realizing it, Rojas undid the clasp of the holster at his hip, and had drawn his pistol.
    The crazed lieutenant stared coolly down the barrel of Rojas’ sidearm, clearly far beyond reason, and grasped it firmly in one hand, pulling it closer to his head, the muzzle just touching his temple. “We’re all dead anyways, marine. We cant fight here and win- but- but the fog…the fog promises all things…. better things for those who sub-“
    Rojas cut the officers rant short with a simple twitch of his finger, rupturing his head like a burst melon and splattering gore and gristle across the towers guard rail. The marine spat at his feet and turned back to face the battlefield. The defensive line was now completely overrun, and his radio earpiece that linked him to the other team leaders was all but dead, transmitting only the screams of the dying and the unearthly wails and groans of their mysterious attackers. It was with a sigh of resignation that he crouched over his dead lieutenants body and plucked a hand grenade from his blood splattered flack vest, and removed the safety clip and pin, leaving only his white knuckle grip as the last thing preventing the small sphere from exploding in a shower of fiery metal and death. He moved over to the railing, and climbed atop it, by his estimation, he could survive the fall…all that remained was to find the largest grouping of enemies to drop down upon as a living bomb.
    He leapt from the railing, relishing the sensation of the air rushing past his ears and teasing his short-cropped hair, knowing it would be the last time he felt such sensations. A longing for home, for his family, filled him as he touched the ground and

rolled to absorb the impact. It was with regret and sorrow that he battled in vain against the onrushing swarm, firing his handgun until it was empty, then using it as an improvised club, desperately whacking away any claws or jaws that came too
close- all the while keeping his grip on the as of yet undetonated grenade. He felt a sharp pain in his back, and was thrown from his feet as an ashen hand slipped through his meager defenses and cleaved through his body armor, shredding the flesh below. Rojas fell face down, and the seemingly innocent globe rolled away from his numbed fingers. Knowing what would come next, the marine closed his eyes, said a final prayer, and waited for the flash and concussion that would signal the end of
his life. The last sound he heard in his shortened life was the shrieking of jet engines blazing overhead.
    
    
    

                            Chapter 5: Aftermath
    Flamethrowers flared brightly against the gray background of the massive fog wall. The bombing runs that had pounded the overrun portions of the defensive perimeter continued non-stop until dawn, when the attacks mysteriously ceased. The
following morning, engineers came out in force, digging mass graves and filling in the trenches with large tractors. The flamethrowers were being utilized to force out the remaining monsters cowering in the dark corners of machinegun bunkers, under piles of wreckage, and even deep inside mounds of corpses.
    Scientists were hypothesizing that the attackers unexpected retreat came occurred at dawn due to an adverse reaction to the UV radiation pumped through earth’s tattered atmosphere. The subjects they managed to capture were kept in complete
darkness, lest they rapidly decompose and disintegrate. Orders were already coming down from on high to place a double perimeter of ultraviolet floodlights in front of the hastily reconstructed defensive line in hopes of offering a measure of protection while the engineers continued their work through the night. The new defensive barriers being constructed behind the dirt trenches were unorthodox to say the least. The labyrinth of trenches was to be completely enclosed with sixteen-inch thick concrete, and then covered in sandbags. Short, square guard towers of similar construction dotted the trench in thirty-meter intervals along the entirety of the defensive line, each equipped with a high power searchlight, along with a heavy machine gun. Behind this dizzying array of stone and metal lay an immense, dam-like construction that was built several hundred meters behind the main line to house soldiers and other personnel not actively manning the line. he construction was far from finished however, and in fact would take several months to complete.
    Fortunately, the engineers were able to work unimpeded by monsters, as the floodlights were a more than adequate defense. The first night after the slaughter that had devastated entire regiments, fresh replacements lined the trenches, staring nervously at the ominous gray cloud swirling in the distance. Their anxiety lifted and turned to joy when the creatures exploded to dust upon emerging from their misty home into the harsh glare of the flood lamps.
    Two months later, the construction was completed, and life for the average man, woman, and child returned to normal.

For a time...