Chaos.

Men ran rampant through the streets of Los Angeles, stabbing and cutting through swathes of civilians. Men in ancient-looking armor, more suited for medieval times with weapons to match, were streaming through a gigantic marble arch that had appeared in the middle of a busy road.

Resistance was slight and ineffective. Although many had firearms, the civilians were caught off-guard and too disorganized to hold off any enemy offensive. Families were forced to flee, a handgun or rifle only able to hold them at bay long enough to escape the immediate danger.

Fantastical creatures had appeared, flying through the sky carrying daredevil riders with long spears or bows. Dragons, gryphons, and pegasuses harassed and corralled the panicked citizens into dead ends where the infantry could have their way.

That was, until the National Guard showed up.

Ryan Warren steered through the crowded street, making sure not to hit anything. Few people were in the street, having fled or found decent enough hiding places. Like him, anyone with a car had attempted to flee already. Major highways were becoming blocked up but with the omnidirectional movement they were steady moving. Many others, like himself, had opted for smaller roads, avoiding much of the traffic.

His wife next to him, his young son in the back, he figured things were going rather smoothly.

Driving down onto a larger road, it was then that he saw the presence of desert-colored trucks with large machine guns mounted to the tops heading in the opposite direction, towards the center of the city. The column was stopped, one man outside emptying fuel cans into the truck and the others waiting on edge in the vehicle itself.

He pulled over into the shoulder of the road, slowing to a stop, and rolled down his window.

"Hey!" he said, "You guys need help?"

The fueler, with the patch of a National Guard unit, waved him off. "No, sir, just get your family to safety."

"I'm National Guard," Ryan said. He reached into his pocket and produced his wallet, showing his military-issued ID to him.

"Where's your unit?" the guardsman asked. Next to him, the vehicle commander opened his door to join in on the conversation.

"Auburn," Ryan answered.

"Shit," the vehicle commander said. "Well, it's not like we have extra equipment."

"I'm sure there's something I can help with," Ryan argued. He didn't look to her, but he could feel the daggers his wife was stabbing into the back of his head with her eyes. "You can always use an extra man."

The vehicle commander leaned into the Humvee and grabbed for the radio handset, explaining the situation to the platoon leader. After a few seconds, he turned back to Ryan.

"Alright," he said. "Just let me see your card."

Butterflies in his stomach, Ryan stepped out of his car and handed the ID to the guardsman.

"Ryan!" he heard from behind him. "What the hell are you doing!?"

He turned to his wife. "Honey, I'm going to join up with my unit anyway. I might as well get started now when they really need people. Just take Michael to the house."

His wife quieted down and wiped the wetness from her eyes. She did marry into the military after all, and she had already accepted that fact. She got out of the car and walked around to the front, giving her husband a tight hug, which he returned.

"Alright," she said. "I know what I got into. Just be safe, ok?"

"Ok," he said. "Just get a few hours away, alright?"

She nodded her head, gave him a quick peck on his cheek, and climbed into the driver seat of the car. She gave him a final wave as she merged back into traffic and disappeared into the mass of vehicles. The last thing Ryan saw was the face of his son looking out the rear window at him.

"Why are you down here if you're based in Auburn anyway?" one of the guardsmen asked.

"Visiting family," Ryan answered. "They took off in their own car."

The vehicle commander reached into the shoulder pocket of his jacket. "Here, before the .50 blows your ears out," he said, throwing him a small box of disposable foam earplugs.

Ryan nodded his thanks and climbed into the Humvee which, having only four inside, had an extra seat in the rear.

Ryan finally began to recognize some sense of a perimeter in the counter-offensive. The enemy were on the run now, over the bodies of their dead strewn across the streets of the city. Unrelenting fire from the guardsmen and .50 caliber machine guns cut down the isolated and demoralized enemy in seconds, although to Ryan it felt like minutes.

To him, the movement of the guardsmen throughout the city did not seem to have any forethought, simply moving street to street and waiting for instructions. It was effective, however, and easily cut down the resistance they faced. Even the mounted riders were little trouble. Enough small arms fire took most down easily enough, and the force of the .50 BMG was often sufficient to tear the creature and riders into pieces.

There simply weren't enough targets for all them men with rifles. One enemy soldier would try to dash across a street and six or seven rifles immediately snapped to him, two or three hitting center mass with the first couple of shots.

He had delegated himself to the wounded civilians at his feet. He, with the help of another couple of guardsmen, was feeling through the casualties, bringing the wounded and dying to an FMTV laden with medical supplies, surrounded by overworked yet diligent medics and doctors. He and his partner picked up a young woman who had a large slice through her thigh and a wound in her abdomen. He kicked away the gauntlet-clad hand of another enemy soldier that reached for his leg. It wasn't that he was ignoring the wounded of the enemy, but his own countrymen had priority to him.

The gunfire had stopped by then. After a stone-faced medic had settled down the woman he was carrying, he slumped down on an overturned trash can. After slowing down, he could hardly breathe. He wasn't thinking it at the time but he had been hauling bodies for hours for hundreds of combined yards. He wiped sweat from his forehead with his shirt, which he noticed was covered in blood. Which of the dozens of wounded he recovered it belonged to he couldn't tell; all he was certain of was that it wasn't his. He let his eyes close, resting his face in his hands. The fingers of sleep tugged at his mind. For once in his military career, he didn't resist.

He was woken with a tap on his shoulder. He blinked his eyes open and itched his hair with his hands, waking himself up. He looked to the source of the disturbance to find a young guardsman there, too young it looked to even be shaving. His uniform was clean save for dirty stains around the knees and his boots, and most prevalently, a large blood splattering across his FLC which spread up across his neck and onto the side of his face to his left ear.

"Hey, you alright, sir?" the boy asked.

Ryan noticed the patch on his left shoulder, a diagonally two-tone near rectangle with a black lightning bolt superimposed over it.

"It's Sergeant," he said. "What company are you?"

"Charlie One Seventy-Nine, Sergeant," the guardsman answered.

Ryan waved him off. "Quit with the 'Sergeant' shit," he said. "Unless you want me to call you Private every sentence, too,"

"I'm good."

"Alright. I'm also in Charlie. I need to talk with the CO."

"Wait, Sergeant Warren?"

"Yeah," Ryan said, nodding.

"First platoon, right? I heard a couple guys from First complaining about a Sergeant who wanted to 'go play Rambo' or some shit."

"Ok," Ryan said, "well can you get me to the captain?"

"Yeah," the guardsman answered. "Yeah, I can do that."

Ryan Warren stood at attention for the man who, in his humble opinion, was the epitome of not giving worth a damn. The blousing bands alone were not a sign, but combined with his hands being constantly in his pockets, the slight shadow he had no matter the time of day, and the almost messy haircut he sported, it was obvious to anyone. He was a good troop leader, Ryan felt, but not a stickler for anything he did not deem important.

"Sir," he said, standing at attention. Around the command room, before that utterly abandoned, before that the food court of a mini-mall, buzzed the headquarters platoon of the unit, ferrying papers back and forth and setting work spaces for the officers and senior sergeants.

"Sergeant."

"Sir?"

"Sergeant."

"Uh, I got here," Ryan said.

"Warren, right?"

Ryan nodded his head.

"Alright. Your gear's in the corner over there. We snipped your lock, by the way," he said.

Ryan replied with a "yes, sir" under his breath and jogged to the pile of gray-blue camouflaged gear. Everything he needed was there, albeit with no changes of clothing in case something was ruined. He grabbed the pile and made for the nearest restroom and quickly donned his uniform. He took the camelback and filled it with one of the restroom's faucets before clipping it to the back of his vest. He donned the vest and stepped back into the makeshift command center.

He quickly found his platoon leader. "Sir? Was my rifle brought?"

The lieutenant nodded and pointed out one of the doors. "Yeah. On an LMTV. We grabbed all the rifles in the arms room."

"Roger," Ryan replied before heading out the door. The private guarding the truck climbed inside the back and produced a rifle matching the serial number Ryan gave to him. Ryan double checked it and slung it over his shoulder. The private turned back into the vehicle and found a seat.

Ryan turned around and headed back to his platoon leader. The officer, a short man with a clean shave and well-fitting uniform, was in a discussion with several NCOs, each writing down notes on small pads of paper. Ryan changed his direction towards the group of guardsmen nearby, who were standing or sitting on whatever they could find. Each looked exhausted, both physically and mentally, and didn't react to his approach. He found his squad filling their canteens and camelbacks from an orange water cooler.

"Hey," he said, "did I miss anything?"

The next day

They were a magnificent sight, yet Ryan had to hold in the burning, sickening sensation in his gut. Since the incident, the Gate (as it had been called) had been quiet, albeit under heavy guard by his battalion. Lined up outside were the men of some Marine unit, their LAV-25s in neat rows, ready to head into the gate. Behind them, the Amphibious Assault Vehicles carrying standard infantry squads, and behind them, the men of the 101st Airborne Division in high-backed Humvees. Behind them, staged on HEMTTs, were attack and transportation helicopters, although not ready in the convoy.

Around them in hundreds, reporters from various networks, both local and national, both American and foreign. In the thousands were mourning locals, cheering on the troops as if this expedition could bring back the dead and heal the wounded.

He could barely stand to look at them, however. It was his home that was attacked, his family endangered. Yet he and his unit were being shafted to home-side sentry duty. His stomach churned.

The area beyond the Gate was black. It was not in the sense of the absence of light, for Sergeant Allen of Alpha Company, First Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion of the First Marine Division, could see his fellow vehicles clear as day. It was the ground itself that was blacker than a new moon's night. The sky, if it could be called that, as well was an identical color. To call it a shade would give it too much credit, Allen thought. There was no discernment between the sky and the ground. Simple emptiness that the battalion seemed to glide on upon a common geometric plane. He was almost fearful of exiting his LAV-25 for fear of falling through whatever surface bore the armored force.

It was like how photos showed the Moon to be. Difference between light and dark was immediate. As the column rode farther away from the abyss' end of the Gate, harsh shadows were born by the vehicles as those behind them blocked the Gate's light. He was tempted to call for headlights to be turned on, but a quick view through the thermal sights of his vehicle produced favorable results.

"Platoon, pick up a line, 100 meter interval," he heard over the radio.

"Driver, did you hear that?" he asked over the intercom.

"No, what?" came the reply.

Allen checked the thermals to see the positioning of the other vehicles. "Go to the right of the guys in front of us. We're hitting a 100 meter interval."

"Roger," his driver answered.

The vehicle turned slightly, gradually increasing the interval as the platoon covered ground. Eventually, Allen was forced to use his thermal sight to gauge his position among the formation. It wasn't until twenty minutes later that he heard a "halt" on the net. He called his driver to a stop and began scanning.

"Unknown contact, dead ahead," he heard. "Tons of 'em. I think I see the opposite Gate, too."

"I see them too," Allen said, trying his best to discern their forms. He couldn't see any weapons on them, however, but then again he was using a rather crude thermal sight at long range. The nature of the environment helped, however, as any source of heat was a stark contrast from the ground surface. "Permission to engage?"

"Hold on," the lieutenant replied. After minute the comm unit crackled. "I see weapons and those big-ass dragon things. Hit the big stuff first. Clear to engage."

Allen let out a slight smile. "Fuck 'em up."

The 25mm autocannon on his vehicle opened up, soon followed by that of the other vehicles. He watched the results on his sight. Projectiles ripped into the far-off bodies, sending limbs and showers of blood everywhere. The enemy soldiers were packed together, allowing even small bursts to kill or wound large groups of men. Several of the beasts tried to take flight, but they were similarly vulnerable and were quickly cut down with their infantry counterparts.

The platoon leader came on the net. "Cease fire, cease fire."

Allen's gunner did so, letting the 25mm cannon slowly cool itself off as wisps of water vapor and smoke rose from the exposed barrel.

"Bravo, hold back. Alpha is going in. We'll follow," the platoon leader said after a minute's hesitation. "An infantry platoon will go in after that."

The smell of fresh air slowly wafted through the open hatch above Sergeant Allen. He reached for the edges and slowly pulled himself up. It was night out, and the headlights of the LAV-25s cast softer shadows around him, signifying a definite change of environment from the desolate Gate. To him, the environment looked no different from the woodland he was used to. The area around the Gate structure was tall, unkempt grass, while a hundred yards or so down hill lay a sparse forest.

Something was not right.

He got back down into the turret and looked through the thermal sights. His heart nearly skipped a beat. Throughout the grass was dozens, perhaps hundreds, of heat signatures lying in wait, starting roughly half way to the woods. He keyed the mic on his helmet. "Sir, check your thermals! I've got guys in the grass!"

"Shit," the lieutenant replied. "Platoon, get on line. Gunners, don't fire yet."

Allen relayed the orders to his crew and the vehicle slowly moved into place. They were rather well-hidden, as Allen could not spot them through the standard sights, and even the thermals were disrupted by the cold grass obscuring their forms.

Within the treeline, Allen saw a black, cold signature form several meters from the ground. As he zoomed in, trying to discern exactly what it was, it blasted away, heading straight for one of the vehicles of his section.

Allen felt it rather than heard it, the reverberations drumming through his vehicles hull, kicking up dust in a similar manner as an Abrams' cannon. He looked out through the periscope just as the struck vehicle's forward wheels regained contact with the ground. One of the forward wheels fell away from the LAV-25, its scorched form slumping to one side from the loss of support.

"Gunner, open up!" he screamed, trying to make sense of the situation. "I don't care at what; just fuck something up!"

That was no missile. If he were in Afghanistan, he wouldn't be so shocked. The Taliban had hundreds if not thousands of cheap rockets and missiles left over from previous wars. Them, he could deal with. Allen just had no idea how a supposedly medieval army produced a weapon with destructiveness similar to that of a guided missile. He kept watching through the periscope as the scouts exited through the rear ramp, rifles up as they sought cover. Thankfully, there was no fire, and all of the Marines appeared uninjured. The turret began to fire, giving Allen the impression that damage was limited to the front of the vehicle only.

Suddenly another vehicle was struck similarly on the side, and this time the turret was disabled. Allen looked to the treeline to where he saw the cold, floating ball earlier.

"Gunner," he called, bringing the mic closer to his mouth for clarity. "Treeline. Look through the thermals for a black floating ball. I think that's what's killing us."

By then, most of the enemy infantry throughout the grass had either retreated or been grievously injured by the 25mm autocannons, and infantry-carrying AAVs had begun emerging from the Gate. They began to form a semi-circular perimeter around the front of the Gate, pushing out past the LAV-25s. Infantry then emerged from the vehicles, rifles up and downrange, and began to form a perimeter themselves. A couple mortar teams began securing their tubes, and machine gunners were in the process of finding open sightlines where their weapons would be most effective.

The AAVs, large boat-shaped tracked vehicles each carrying a squad of riflemen, began to push towards the perimeter, firing their Mk. 19 automatic grenade launchers as they went. The enemy fire finally began to die down, and the riflemen pushed forwards out of cover. Captain Pelsc, commander of Alpha Company, First Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion, moved forwards with his dismounted men, rifle in hand. His men took up positions in the tall grass, firing at any movement in the now-sparse trees beyond. The rest of the AAVs belonging to Bravo Company, First Battalion, First Marines crept up to his men's outer perimeter and the troops inside dismounted.

The troops cautiously moved towards the edge of the forest. This was perhaps the most dangerous part of the assault, he thought, as the large weaponry utilized by their vehicles could not be used for fear of friendly fire.

What happened next came to no surprise to him. Swordsmen popped from the ground, from behind trees, from the few treetops, and even from behind the bodies of fallen monsters. The Marines were outnumbered and outskilled, but made up for it in ferocity and technology, shooting and bayoneting their way through back to the perimeter. In the dark, Pelc's men couldn't fire accurately and maintained fire discipline. The surviving enemy were nearly overwhelming, however, and men not engaged with the forward riflemen began to desperately charge up towards his line.

"Bayonets!" Pelsc yelled, attaching his own, before leveling the rifle and getting a few shots off before the first man reached him. He parried the sword blow with his bayonet, swinging to smack the man in the jaw with his stock. He shot the man in the chest and moved to the next target. Men around him preformed similar, holding off the quickly dwindling push.

It was obvious to him the battle was over. A last act of defiance against impossible odds, swordsmen charged bravely yet were cut down by rifle fire. Although they stood a fair chance against the Marines in terms of close quarter skills, Pelsc's men were able to increase distance enough to use their rifles. Eventually, enemy manpower ran out, and after the last rounds were fired, a small breeze blew through the hill. The scent it him hard. He hadn't noticed it before, but the smell of dead men and gunpowder was nearly too much. He held his composure for his men, however, and began directing medical details to gather the wounded and count the dead.

The sun was beginning to show beyond the horizon. He could make out a great forest in the distance, vast mountain ranges flanking on either side. It was a picturesque sight yet he couldn't enjoy it. He took off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his forehead and eyes with his sleeve, before slicking his hair back and replacing his helmet.

Something in the distance caught his eye. He thought it was a trick of the light at first, but reached into a pouch for binoculars.

His stomach sank.

Torches. Hundreds of them. Tall, building-sized monsters. Ogres and dragon mounts. Catapults and cavalry.

The sight kept his attention for several minutes as he studied every detail, trying to come up with a plan for his exhausted men to carry out in a desperate, ditched defense. It wasn't until a tap on his shoulder that he diverted his attention. It was his executive officer, Lieutenant Sheere.

"Sir, the tanks are through."