With Eyes Turned Skyward

by Gregory Stravinski

  I hear the wrenching of metal behind me. Turning around, I catch Olan pulling a water spigot off the wall. Shaking the bolts loose, Olan folds it with his bare hands as one would a balloon creature.

  My mouth drops. “Olan, stop! You’ll bleed out.”

  He waves me off. “The battle’s not over yet!”

  Content with his design, Olan uses his massive hand to push the young marine aside, and begins fishing for the Sergeant. Olan grins, succeeding in hooking one of the Sergeant’s straps. Then, angling with the pipe, Olan begins reeling him in. Matsumoto wraps his arms around the deformed piece of metal, leaving a faint trail of blood behind him.

  He’s almost to safety. I reach out to grab him.

  A stream of bullets tears the spigot in half, bringing the sergeant to a stop. Before I can do anything, Olan lunges out, grabbing Matsumoto by the strap. In one heave, he throws the marine over to us.

  Olan’s helmet rings loudly.

  My heart stops. The world slows. The helmet spins off Olan’s head as he falls over into our alcove. Tracers fly by lazily as I try recollecting myself. What they don’t tell you about time is, once it slows down, it has to speed back up to repay the deficit. Faster than I can remember anyways. When I catch up, I’m hunched over Olan, pulling him all the way back into the alcove again with the help of three other marines.

  I kneel over his face, searching for the entry wound. All I can find is a giant welt next to his temple. Not knowing what else to do, I yell his name, trying to shake back him to consciousness.

  No response.

  As I rearing up to slap him, his hands clap over his face. Growling, he twists over to his side.

  “God bless it, that smarts,” he mutters through his fingers.

  Relief washes over me. Exhausted, I sit against our savior of a wall, looking up at the sky.

  What do we do now?

  I scan our little recess. We have one medic. He’s already lined up the wounded and begun to prioritize their injuries, making marks on their faces as he goes. He’s completely overwhelmed and thus, no use to me. Our highest ranking officer is Matsumoto, who’s now lined up against the wall with the other wounded and not fit to command. Our lack of leadership weighs heavily on all of us; I glance around, sensing the other marines are also trying to hatch their own plans of escape.

  Running a thumb over my Corporal’s chevrons, I realize that, as the senior enlisted man, I’m in charge. It’s up to me now. Two engineers who’ve been attached to our platoon catch my eye. Light flashes as they use their welding tools to cut through the supports of a nearby generator. I crawl my way over to where they’ve laid out their tools.

  “What are you doing Specialist?” I inquire of the head engineer.

  The Specialist turns off her torch and flips up her visor. “Trying to save our arses, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  She has intelligent green eyes flecked with spots of hazel. You can tell that she’s used them to take in a lot of information over many years.

  “And how are you planning to do that?” I ask.

  The Specialist pulls me by the shoulder, pointing to the killing field. “You see that?” she says. “Everyone who’s not currently behind something solid, is quite dead right now.” Her Irish lilt dances over the shots continuing to pour from the machinegun nest. She then turns me toward the now unhitched generator. “That’s something quite solid, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Nodding, I finish the rest of her plan in my mind. I look at the burned supports of the unit. “I bet you need help turning that over, huh?”

  The Specialist lets go of my shoulder, making a grandiose gesture towards the generator. “Would you kindly?”

  I point to two marines, waving them over to our position. Thirsty for some sort of leadership, they vault over to the generator, allowing me to quickly explain the plan to them. We have to use the generator as a mobile shield until we get close enough to toss explosives into the machinegun nest. The major hitch is that we don’t know if it’ll stand up to continuous fire. I guess there’s only one way to find out.

  Before I get my men into place, I turn to the Specialist. “And who can I thank for masterminding this plan?”

  The Specialist’s eyes light up at the praise. It’s not common for Artemis’s leaders to recognize the accomplishments of groups beyond their own wing. The Specialist takes my hand, pumping it quickly. It’s obvious she’s no stranger to physical labor.

  “The name’s Diz!” she shouts.

  I give her a look.

  “Dizzy McAlister, at your service, Corp.” she clarifies.

  “Sage Basmon!” I yell back.

  Content with our introduction, Diz applies a thick layer of grease to the side of the generator we’ll be pushing, motioning for us to tip it over. Together, we shove our shoulders into the unit until it yields, crashing to the ground. One of the engineers undoes his grenades from his belt, clenching them in his fists.

  “I really hope this fuckin’ works,” he mutters to no one in particular.

  Diz stuffs her mane of curly red hair back into her helmet before throwing her shoulder against the generator with the rest of us. We must be quite the sight, pushing an upturned generator toward an almost certain death.

  As we round the corner, a hail of gunfire smashes into us from the other side. The oily residue under our feet makes it hard to grip the floor, but I can’t imagine moving something this size without it. Beads of sweat drizzle down my face. Grunts of fear and desperation are the only things I can hear besides the constant hammering on the other side.

  We’re almost halfway across the killing field before the rest of the platoon realizes what we’re doing. There’s a pop of carbines as they begin laying down suppressing fire. The machinegun nest appears confused about which target is more dangerous, beginning to swing its arc of fire from side to side; a steady stream of death ricocheting wherever it points.

  Hearing the fans on the other side of the generator getting pummeled into small bits leads me to believe the nest has chosen us. More worrying is the fact that the echoes reverberating from inside the destroyed generator are getting deeper. My anxiety spikes when I notice the deep gouges the upturned generator is carving into the floor; the oily layer of grease underneath it is wearing thin. We won’t be hidden for long. A bullet punches through the unit, right next to my face.

  Everyone pulls away from the generator, but without straying from its protective shadow.

  “Back on it. There’s no other way!” Diz snaps.

  Just like that, we’re all back to pushing. The proposition’s a horrifying one: I’d much rather be able to see where the bullet that might fell me is coming from. We duck and weave, struggling to push as more stray bullets punch through our makeshift shield.

  There’s a small clang as one of the strays pierces the other engineer’s welding fuel canister. His back ignites in a burst of flame. I don’t know what’s worse: hearing his screams as he unsuccessfully tries to pull off the pack, or the smell of his burning flesh. Both contribute to my own need to vomit, but I choke it down. I close my eyes, pushing the burning room away. There are no cinders anymore. My hands have been burnt for years. Focus.

  “Keep pushing!” Diz shouts.

  I have to give her credit; when she makes a plan, she sticks to it. I throw my shoulder back into the unit, heaving with the others. At least it’s impossible for me to spontaneously catch fire.

  The generator halts, scraping almost to a stop as we use up the last of its grease and our strength.

  Diz will not to be stopped. “Just five more feet you cads! Then we’re there!”

  Five more feet is exactly what she gets before we screech to a standstill and curl up at the base of the generator. I raise my fatigued hand, signaling for each side of my fractured platoon to generate one last burst of suppressing fire. Two walls of bullets rush past. When the second whistles by, our soldiers take the opportunity to pop their heads out just enough to toss a volley of precious
explosives into the machine gun nest in front of us. Most of the grenades find their mark, exploding with a satisfying reverberation. Blood arcs up the opposing wall of the nest, disclosing that at least one of the operators is down.

  Before I realize what’s happening, footsteps pound behind me. A berserk Olan rushes up, bounding over the generator with his claymore clutched in both hands. In the blink of an eye, he jumps the distance between us and the nest. Startled voices erupt from the bunker.

  A shot rings out.

  Olan ducks, and the bullet buries itself in the husk of the generator. He punches his fist into the hole, ripping out the offender. The pirate struggles as Olan slams him onto the ground, spitting him on the spot. Olan draws up his bloodied weapon against the wall, peering into the opening for more victims.

  His thirst for blood is infectious; my fatigue melts away, supplanted by anger. I find myself on top of the generator with my saber out, roaring for the rest of the survivors to press forward. Somewhere in my mind, I know there’s no way this recklessness can end well, but that thought’s completely dominated by the prospect of blood.

  Hitting the ground, I charge the side door of the bunker. Without losing any momentum, I lower my shoulder and crash into the wooden door. I’m overzealous; the door falls inwards and I lose my footing, falling right on top of it. Hitting the ground, I brace for the blades and bullets bound to tear through me, but my enemies are just as surprised as I am.

  Pressing the advantage, I lunge upward, skewering the operator standing next to me. He stumbles backwards, coughing up blood onto my hands. Something pops against the blade inside of him. I struggle to pull the sword out, knowing he’s not the only one left in the room. Nobody ever taught me the physics of killing someone.

  A concussed pirate staggers into the hallway. Abandoning my sword, I grab the pistol on my hip. In one smooth motion, I tear my sidearm from my leg, firing two rounds into her. She falls gaping-mouthed to the floor as the nest’s door flings open behind me. A pirate covered in the same oversized mouth war paint dives out. It has the desired effect. I fight visceral panic, trying to drive more bullets into my sidearm. Apparently the operators only had the one machine gun to rely on, because he’s almost on me, wielding just a knife.

  Whirling, I level my gun, but he’s too fast.

  He tackles me full on. The knife slits through the air, but nothing else. He forces me backwards, using his momentum. I keep my balance, but drop my gun trying to get a hold of the knife’s hilt. Hitting the wall, I angle myself so his bald head takes most of the impact. The collision stuns him. Grabbing hold of the hilt with both hands, I plant one of my boots on his back, twisting his arm upwards over his head until I can feel his shoulder muscles straining against the pressure.

  He cries out as I dig my boot into his back, wrenching his arm even farther over his head. The knife drops from his hands as his yelling intensifies.

  I don’t care. I’m gonna finish this.

  I grin, feeling his shoulder reach the absolute limit of its range. I throw my back into it, pulling even harder. I hear the cartilage and muscle tear. His arm flies over his head, no longer limited by tendons and tissue. I can barely hear his cries of pain. Blood pumps past my ears, engulfing my hearing. Laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep inside as I climb off of him, reveling in his writhing state.

  It’s not enough.

  He turns his head towards me. I swing my right foot up, driving the steel toe into his face. Pleasure consumes me as I hear the crunch of cartilage and bone.

  I raise my boot up to cave in the back of his head.

  A force hits me in the chest, pinning me to the wall.

  Confused, I grapple with my new assailant, but my blows are blocked and my arms shoved up against my chest, immobilizing me. I hear yelling. Slowly, I see the red curls. My vision begins focusing on the face. Diz’s furious green eyes pierce through my confusion.

  “We can use him!” she yells.

  I stop struggling. My muscles twitch with exhaustion.

  Diz shoves me further up the wall for increased emphasis. “Don’t waste your energy trying to kill someone we can fucking capture! Information can be more valuable than gold.”

  I feel the fight drain out of me. Nodding my head, my rage is gradually replaced by embarrassment and nausea. Diz slowly lets me down “Use that energy to kill the ones that still have weapons. Savvy?”

  Before I can manage another nod, I double over shaking. I pull in gasps of air, but can’t catch my breath.

  Diz turns around, surveying the carnage. “Well, you’ve made short work of this lot.”

  The doorway frames a young marine. The whites of his eyes dominate his face. It’s probably his first fight. I give him a half-hearted thumbs-up, trying to disguise the fact that I’m a monster. I furtively look down at the face of the man with the overly large, painted mouth. His right cheekbone’s caved in. A streak of red pours from his nose, and he’s not moving.

  Marines surge through the door. They step over the bodies I’ve created, making their way down the hall. Shots ring out. The clash of sabers reverberates back as they clear the rooms one by one. I try getting back on my feet.

  It doesn’t work.

  My knees buckle as the very last of my adrenaline gives out. My back aches, and searing pain pierces its way back into my face. If I keep this up, I won’t have a body left to fight with. Diz watches me as I try to collect myself. It’s not working. Fighting the darkness pooling at the borders of my vision, I fight to stay conscious.

  I bring a leaden arm up to wipe my nose. “Thanks for bringing me back Diz.”

  Silence materializes between us.

  “Cry Havoc,” she replies quietly.

  8

  The sun drowns below the clouds as night takes over. The gunshots cease. Our platoon did just what it was supposed to do: they broke through the line and took The Legion by surprise. The pirates didn’t have much fight left after that. Isolated pockets continue to resist inside the ship as the marines painstakingly sweep every single cabin until the living quarters are ours. The only thing left is the cargo bay, and that team’s already been dispatched.

  The triage center’s transformed into a full-scale field hospital. We take up a good quarter of the ship’s deck. I’m somewhere between receiving care for myself, and providing it to the more gravely wounded soldiers. Everything aches. I can barely keep my eyelids open, and I take frequent gulps of water just for the cold stimulation.

  My mind is numb. I’ve seen battles before, but never like this. It’s always been through a window, or a door of a plane, amounting to little more than exciting flashes with toy soldier figures going at it. But never like this.

  As I administer cold compresses to a wounded marine who’s showing symptoms of a fever, I prick my ears for the sound of a popping flare. That one sound would bring me all of the joy in the world. I want my bunk. I want to find Cass and discover if this morning was just a dream. I want out of this hell.

  I don’t get my flare. Instead, I get an excited Private sprinting through the tent, shouting my name.

  “Corporal Basmon!”

  Barely able to keep my eyes open, I look up from my compresses. “What?”

  The Private finds me, weaving his way through the wounded to get closer than hollering range.

  Closing in, he snaps a quick salute. “Corporal Basmon, you’re needed in the cargo hold for a Captain’s Meeting.” he says.

  I thank him, furrowing my brow. ‘’Captain’s Meeting’ is a bit of a misnomer. It isn’t necessarily comprised of captains, but it does involve most of the leadership still left on a vessel, bringing them together to make a decision. What could they have possibly discovered that requires that kind of conference?

  “What’d they find?” I ask.

  The Private shrugs “Not sure myself,” he replies. “They just found me, and sent me up as a runner. They said if you asked, that you’d need to come see it for yourself.”

  I bi
te my lip. I hate cryptic messages. The world would be a much simpler place if people didn’t feel the need for grand gestures. Handing him my remaining compresses, I thank him again.

  I shuffle out of the tent, the smell of blood slowly clearing from my nostrils. Or at least it’s less noticeable out here. Many of the bodies have been stacked up or laid out based on their allegiance. The prisoners taken in battle are lined up facing the wall, their helmets and hats knocked off for good measure.

  As I round the corner by the cargo hold bulkhead, I come upon a group of soldiers taking turns kicking a tightly bound prisoner as the senior officers look the other way.

  I understand; it’s been a long day. Each kick represents someone they knew. Frankly, if I weren’t being summoned right now, I may have taken a few shots myself.

  The dank stairwell leading to the cargo hold is reminiscent of my daily commute to the Cellar. Winding steps creep down into the darkness. But the smell’s not familiar. I gag at the oppressive odor. I’d easily trade the acrid blood smell of the field hospital over whatever this is. Reaching the bottom, a horrific sight stops me where I stand. What appears to be almost two hundred shoddily clothed men and women stare back at me. They peer from behind bars, their distended stomachs suggesting that they haven’t eaten in some time. I don’t even have the courtesy to keep my mouth closed.

  The Legion weren’t just pirates . . . they were slavers.

  “Corporal Basmon!”

  My head snaps to the right to survey the cluster of uniforms gathered in the corner next to the makeshift brig. The faces of most of the officers remaining on the ship glow in the lamp light.

  “I see you have the same penchant for tardiness concerning Captain’s Meetings as you do for basic training,” smirks Captain Dixon.

  At least she remembers me.