3questria

Chapter 3: The Necromares

From CNN

“This is a CNN Breaking News Report. Good morning, I’m Linda Stark, and we have breaking news out of, well, out of many places around the country of an apparent alien invasion of our world. Unconfirmed reports are coming in around the globe of unidentified creatures attacking major cities. As of now, Los Angeles, New York, Baltimore, Atlanta, Richmond, Philadelphia, and St. Louis are all apparently under attack by what one witness describes as ‘alien horses.’ Folks, looking out the window right now I can tell you that Manhattan is in flames and we may have to move soon in order to avoid the crossfire. No report of any casualties, but with the extent of the damage that I can see right now, folks, I would not be—

“Oh my goodness…if you’re just tuning in, that is the Empire State Building and it—my God, it is going down. The whole thing is coming down. We also have unconfirmed reports that One World Trade Center is on fire and that…yes, that military forward operating bases are being set up at the Statue of Liberty and in the sheltered areas of Central Park, but again, we are dealing with pure speculation at this point.

“At this time, we are going to move to a new location. We are no longer safe. Stick with us, though, we will return once we have found a better spot…”

From BBC

“This is Paul Collins, and it is sixteen past the hour. We are continuing live coverage of the apparent alien attack on the Earth, and as you can see from this live feed these things, whatever they are, are tearing London apart. Fire is coming out of Big Ben’s faces, and it looks as if Parliament has been blown out. Are these things…Jim, do you think these things are attacking our government buildings or are they just attacking at random? I think that…my God, they’re coming for the studio. I think we have to lea—”

From the Pentagon’s emergency alert system

PREPARE ALL FORCES. WE ARE AT WAR.

United States Army Forward Operating Base, Designate ‘Golf Bravo’

Empire-Fulton Ferry, Upper Brooklyn, NY

Day 2 of the Invasion

0040 hrs.

Overhead, the streaks and smoke trails of rockets drew an ashen lattice of crisscrossing lines in the sky. The roars and drones of F-22s and Blackhawks drowned out the groans of injured soldiers and buildings. Combat boots crunched broken asphalt, spent ammunition, and other bits of debris, and Marines found themselves ducking behind burnt taxicabs and in underground subway entrances just to avoid the deadly bolts and horns of their equine enemies.

A few miles away, the radio operator of F.O.B. Golf Bravo wiped the sweat from his brow. His name was Jensen, and his ears were ringing, not from explosions or gunfire but from the endless barrage of static-laced voices coming through his headphones. The fuzzy computer screen didn’t help his eyesight either, but then again, this was barely an FOB. A pocket of Marines had managed to set up tech in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, and spray from the East River wasn’t helping anything. For Jensen, it was hard to process any thoughts with so much noise flooding his ears, adding to the low booms and cracks from the battlefield.

“Be advised, multiple hostiles on Fifth Avenue, Raptors have taken aim.”

“…coordinates…”

“Choppers going down over Times.”

“What the hell are those things?!”

“We have reports of friendlies and civvies stranded on the roof of the Flatiron Building, acknowledge.”

“Be advised, SATCOM is picking up a large group of hostiles converging on civvies in Central Park.”

Such was the confusion, the frantic scramble for control of the situation. But Jensen didn’t feel in control, not when New York was being destroyed by flying horses.

“Jensen!”

A lieutenant approached the radio operator.

“Yes sir?”

“Do you have any contact with groups on Broadway?”

“Negative, Wolfpacks Four and Nine have gone quiet.”

“What about the other packs?”

“All accounted for, sir.”

“Did we pull out our boys from Fifth?”

“Yes, sir, but word from Wolfpack Two is that those pony things have taken almost all of central Manhattan.”

Suddenly a new, much more frantic report came in.

“This is Wolfpack Two! Visual on enemies at Trinity Church! Repeat, Trinity Church! Wolfpack Three has gone dark and we’ve got men pinned down at the Stock Exchange!”

“Wolfpack Two, confirm enemies in South Manhattan.”

“Confirmed, base! Those things aren’t letting up! And…holy shit—what the hell is that?! What are those things?”

Jensen tried to blink sweat out of his eye. “Wolfpack Two, what do you see?”

“There are new hostiles! Repeat, new hostiles! I—my God, they’re everywhere!  They’re not like the pony things! They’re…”

Static.

“Wolfpack Two, repeat! Wolfpack Two, come in!”

The lieutenant hung his head and punched the desk on which Jensen’s Powerbook lay upon.

“Damn it!” he shouted. “We’re losing Manhattan to a bunch of flying ponies!”

“What if they’re not ponies, sir?” Jensen said suddenly. “What if they’re aliens?”

“Shut up and give the following order, Private! All units in the Financial District, retreat to Battery Park. Units in Midtown, Gramercy Park, and Chelsea will pull back to the rivers, which ever is closer. What kind of air power do we have, Private?”

Jensen checked the radar. “Raptors and Hawks are going down fast, sir, but we’ve got an A10 detachment coming in from Vermont, ETA 1 hour.”

“Alright, we have to get those planes over the city to wipe those bastards out. Send orders to—”

BOOOM!

The explosion came from outside, and it was so loud that it shook the tent in which Jensen and the lieutenant were situated. The two men ran outside. It had begun to rain, but it didn’t impede their vision, and as they traced the screams and pointing fingers of the men around them, they saw where the explosion had come from.

The Brooklyn Bridge was collapsing. Cars, tanks, and bodies tumbled from the falling bridge as a dozen winged ponies flew away from the carnage. Jensen watched as dozens of Marines and other military men plunged to their deaths.

“Jesus,” the lieutenant managed. The rain picked up, coming to earth in torrents, but it would not put out the fires that decimated New York. The lieutenant turned to Jensen.

“Where’s Wolfpack One?”

Jensen shivered, and not because of the rain. “Wolfpack One, sir?”

“Yes, damn it! These fuckers just took out the damn Brooklyn Bridge! We need heavy firepower and we need it now! Where are they?!”

Jensen ran back to his computer inside his tent with the lieutenant hot on his heels.

“Wolfpack One is awaiting deployment, sir. They got held up at Tilden. Sir, they’re on a no-go.”

“What?!” The lieutenant gazed over Jensen’s shoulder. “Why the hell are they on no-go?! This is a national emergency!”

“They’ve been temporarily decommissioned.”

“Well recommission them, goddamn it!”

“Sir, I don’t have the autho—”

The lieutenant slammed his fist on the table. “Manhattan is fucking burning, Corporal! Dispatch Wolfpack One and any other units available! I want you to—”

Suddenly the cry of “Watch out!” pierced through the battle-laden air, and fire instantly leapt up in front of the tent, as if something had just spewed a giant fireball and launched it at the F.O.B. Jensen fell to the ground, his back scorched, but the lieutenant got the full blast of the fireball. He screamed in pain, and when the heat subsided, the screaming stopped and Jensen hopped up, threw off his burnt jacket, and attended to his superior.

“Sir? Sir, are you okay?”

But he was not okay, not in the slightest. Half of his face had been burnt off, exposing scorched muscle and bone. He was dead.

RRROOOAAUUGHHH!

The roar came from outside and above. It was so powerful that it knocked the tent over, burying Jensen in cloth. Struggling, he cut through the fabric with his teeth and fingertips and, on instinct, relieved the dead lieutenant of his Beretta. Men were screaming and pointing, and the whole base was in flames. When Jensen finally looked in the direction that his comrades were pointing in, his blood ran cold.

A dragon, black with bloodred eyes, stood atop the ruins of the burning Brooklyn Bridge. It was the size of a jumbo jet and had something around its neck that looked as deadly as its wearer. The dragon roared again, nearly shattering Jensen’s eardrums, and behind him the fires were battling the rain, and winning.

Jensen, perhaps more out of shock than desperation, aimed at the dragon and fired three times. All three shots fell far short of their mark, and suddenly the dragon began to shed black clumps from its back, fuzzy and evanescent as if they were made of shadow.

But they weren’t shadows. As they approached the remains of the base, Jensen realized they were aliens, and took aim again.

The dragon took off, spewing another fireball that slammed into the faraway MetLife building, ravaging its floors with flame. In mere moments, the shadowy aliens were upon them, flying past and cutting soldiers down like locusts with sharpened wings of steel. Jensen fired until he had no ammunition left, then ran as the scythelike wings of the shadowy aliens cut deep into his skin. It was over in minutes, and every soldier at F.O.B. Golf Bravo lay dead or dying.

Then the bombing run began, a series of purple explosions that incinerated some soldiers and maimed the rest, destroying what remained of the southern portion of the Brooklyn Bridge. Overhead, the dragon spewed fire into the sky that sent a whole squadron of F-22s plummeting to their fiery doom. All that remained of the A10 attachment from Vermont lay sinking in the East River. Gunfire, artillery, and lightning bolts streaked across the sky, forming a lattice of fire and smoke. The skies above New York were aflame, and the city was slowly burning to the ground.

After the bombing subsided, Jensen looked up and saw that his foot had been blown off from the explosions. A bloody stump lay where his left boot had once been, but he was too shocked to feel any pain. Cuts and gashes, some as deep as two itches, were etched across his body and face, and he lay on the ground, dying.

As his vision blurred, as the only colors he could see became the black of night and the orange of the fires that burned around him, a blackish-gray shape appeared from the flames. He aimed and pulled the trigger, but he was out of bullets. The shape became clearer: it was a craggily-horned equine with gray skin, black mane, and red snakelike eyes. It was winged and horned, and its wings were like black tempered steel, hell-bent on cutting down anything in their path. It looked rotten, but its eyes were alive and full of boiling hatred. It spared little time between seeing the downed soldier and coming over to him.

“What…” Jensen gasped as his life faded. “What…what are…”

His hand slackened on the gun, and he closed his eyes. He was dead.

The equine smiled.

“Puny human. We are the Necromares, and your world is from hereon forfeit.”