For the Love of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 3)

by Ichabod Temperance

  “I say, victory is at hand!”

  “Heck yeah! We done good, y’all!”

  “Oh, oh, oh my! I am so glad!”

  “Mine heart rejoiceth!”

  {{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}

  The giant green flash of an explosion wrecks a catapult battery nearby. We are caught in a shower of shrapnel from the destroyed weapon.

  {{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}

  Another powerful explosion knocks many of us to the ground. Clarabelle is forced to suspend her silence-inducing note.

  {{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}

  We are taking a terrible beating! Green flames viciously explode throughout the area. We cannot fathom from whence we take fire. Confusion has suddenly and completely taken us in its un-manning grip.

  {{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}

  The giant green bolts of destructive energy blasts come from behind us, on the other side of the river.

  With Miss Nightingale interrupted, the sonic cannon take up their explosive work again, redoubling their efforts.

  We look to the source of our new adversaries. Treading across the plain from out of the West are two more dreaded towers of Martian construction. These, however, are armed with a terrible new weapon of destruction. The blasting green rays are much like those my opponent used against me when he was bogged down in the mud, back in Alabama. That seems so long ago, now. The blasters that are mounted to the tops of these three legged vehicles are far greater in size and lethal energies than are evident in the pistol sized variety. These tremendous shots are more accurate as well. Faster than can be comprehended, the green light of the deadly blasters illuminates our battlefield. The new walkers quickly gain the river. With less timidity than their predecessors had shown, the freshly appearing unwelcome guests confidently stride into the water. They quickly gain the opposite bank and continue their deadly dispersal of emerald death. Our resistance becomes more sporadic.

  The sonic cannon focus their unsettling disturbances upon the immense granite obelisk that bears this city’s name. The monument to our country’s father figure explodes in a rapidly expanding cloud of razor sharp shards that fall throughout the entire city and countryside.

  I think that it is in that moment, that our forces at last lose hope.

  Now marching with confidence and purpose, the giants pompously parade about our nation’s masthead.

  One horror turns North up Pennsylvania Avenue to wreck the famous house that resides there.

  The others continue down the Mall. The twin sonic cannon are brought to bear upon the domed edifice at the head, the great wings of its legislature’s halls at its flanks.

  Whumm-whumm. Whumm-whumm.

  The cannon achieve a cacophonous climax.

  The air for a mile in every direction is filled with the over-whelming pulsations.

  The few of us that are still present let out a collective, uncontrollable moan in simultaneous dismay.

  The building that represents the collected conscience of our nation trembles, and then succumbs to the debilitating rhythms.

  Our wondrous city lies in smoking ruin around us.

  The towering metallic monsters appear to look about the landscape in smug self-satisfaction.

  Until now, the creatures had seemed to be predominantly concerned with wholesale destruction.

  They now seem to have an altogether different priority.

  They have turned their attention to us.

  We can feel the stare of their inhuman eyes. They are so frightfully tall and we are so tiny in comparison. How awful to be looked upon in such a way. Something about their manner conveys desire and hunger.

  Slowly at first, so as not to scare us, they begin to ease towards their human pursuers. Much like a gleeful, evil child, wishing to torment a small animal, a titanic Martian reaches down towards us with its steel tentacles. We are like so many frightened mice before enormous and amused hungry felines.

  We flee before this nightmarish vision. Blind and mindless flight is all we are capable of in this moment. Our few troops fly from the conflict in an unrestrained retreat. In an unnerving spectacle, the giant creations chase us through the streets of our finest city, attempting to catch us up in their hated, metal tentacles, or skewer us on their dagger feet.

  Running in a total panic, we reach the Potomac River. No thought is given to acquiring a boat. We dash headlong into the water, swimming for our lives.

  We abandon our city.

  We surrender her to our detestable enemies.

  In ignoble defeat, we run from our foes. This is the worst defeat I have ever suffered. The bitter bile of this loss is an ugly taste. In a symbolic sense, our whole country has been defeated. Worse still, is the all too serendipitous timing of the date in history.

  “Oh, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am, I didn’t even realize until now, what the date is.”

  “Of what significance is the date, Mr. Temperance?”

  “Today is our country’s one hundredth birthday. In tragic irony, on this day, July 4, 1876, the Capital of the United States of America, the city of Washington, in the District of Columbia, has fallen to foreign invaders and is under Martian Law.”

  Chapter Nine · A Mission Scarcely Possible!

  The Boston Bean

  U.S. CAPITAL IS LOST TO ALIEN INVADERS!

  By Miss M. Prudence Willingness.

  America tearfully cancels her Independence Day celebrations as Washington D.C. falls to our un-Worldly foes. Despite the stalwart defense mounted by our brave Military, our inhuman enemies have taken our fairest city. America mourns the tragic loss of our Capital, Washington D.C.

  Picnics are still considered okay to attend, but fireworks might be thought to be in bad taste at this trying time in our nation’s history.

  In a refreshing realization of how people conduct themselves, our civil defense authorities have a brilliant plan for getting the millions of people that are now potentially the dinner for our bloodthirsty enemies out of harm’s way. The populace of the NorthEast United States is recommended to panic. Orderly evacuations are far too slow. Too often these tedious demonstrations of our populace’s tendency to allow their easily guided throngs to end up slowing from a brisk walk to a slower gait. Then, a listless shuffle. Eventually, you have barely any movement at all. Officials believe that madcap pandemonium is probably the sensible course of behaviour at the time. Leading by example, our municipalities’ mayors, councilmen, and every other public official have already tried to get a jump on things and get out of danger’s path ahead of the unwashed public. Citizens are encouraged to scream and wave their hands in the air, as this will often hurry the people in front along.

  Your refusal to cooperate is appreciated.

  The Belgian Waffler.

  A feature by Miss Anne Thropic (The Bustle of Brussels)

  CITY OF LIGHT GOES DARK

  Dateline! Paris! This reporter has it on good authority that Europe’s leadership has totally lost control of the Martian crisis! State of the art weaponry for our troops has been turned against its users. The metal melting beam of our Martian enemies renders all our mighty weaponry useless. Steam-driven fortresses upon their metal belts are of no use. Fantastic electric discharge weapons, amazing machineries that can cast a devastating blast of energies at our opponents are destroyed by the horrible ray before their powers can be brought to bear. Vast armies, thousands upon thousands of men, have nothing with which to fight the Martians’ warcraft. Not a rifle or bayonet is afforded our fighting soldiers. The very buttons of their uniforms are turned against them. The most powerful forces on the continent have been unable to stay the course of the invasion vehicles. My own reporterette eyes have witnessed the three tripod built war machines on the streets of Paris. It is in this, one of Europe’s, if not the World’s, most beautiful cities, that the invaders have come together. The German, Polish, and Andossian originated walking war machines congregated in this one spot to combine their unstoppable onslaught.

  In a ‘Bustle’ exclusive,
I have spoken with noted scientist, Marcus Gilman as to how the battles fare:

  “Zee three legged monstrosities are poveenck most difficult to contendz vith. I have collaborated vith some of the greatest minds of Europe. Unfortunately, they do not quite measure up to mein own genius.” {Bustle Insert - Of course not, Herr Gilman!} “With a few notable exceptions, however. One being my colleague Professor Wolfrom von Zott. He has introduced me to a remarkable young man. A young Serbian prodigy that does come close to the searing genius that I and Professor Zott possess. He is a professor at the Polytechnic Institute of Graz, in Austria. He is known affectionately as ‘Kleine’ Professor, this Professor Nikola Tesla. Despite his extreme youth, he is remarkably gifted with intelligence and has an amazeenck propensity for theories of unusual electrical applications. It eez mein hope that together, vee vill produce a solution to this most intriguing problem of catastrophic implication. Please keep your hands to yourself, Miss Anne Thropic, I hav-ven zee vork to perform und not zee time for zee hanky pankys!”

  The Sleepy Koalan

  MENACIDAL MECHANICALS MEAN MAYHEM!

  By Miss Rann D. Goodbody

  Krikey! The nethereals of our fellow ‘Down-Unders’ is clept in the wringer! For a clear cognizotical and brilliant insight, we go to Australias favorite Secret Agent Superstar, James Murray:

  “Krikey! Scuttle me for a kangaroo’s pouch! The dipsologinated tripodigy what crashed our continental sanctity tip-toed right outta the bloomin’ Queensland Desert. Shenckle me goots! Me diggers outta WallaWalla gives it a frightful warboling, but the horrible three loonked monster preed the blurindigorns. Always onna Southern course is our ugly brute. Some stout hearted aborigines are giving this thrice armed hooligan the devil! They have kept the three armed galoot pinned up in his tripizoidal walklinger, Whenever the ugly dingerhourfer tries to clear grit from the mechanical joints. Our bush-mates are there to give him a boomerang massage. This has proven to at least slow the towering spider a step or two.

  The Devil what nearly took a dive into Lake Disappointment over on the Western half of our continent has been on a course South and East, traveling through the Great Sandy Desert from which impact was made, to tallerganging his walkabouts across the Gibson Desert and into the Northern wastes of the Great Victorian Desert. Good on ‘im if that bloody bloke makes it outta there! Much like our aboriginal mates in the Queensland Desert, our bushmen chums of the Great Victorian Desert harangue the monster toddler at every opportunity with their slings, spears, and boomerangs. Our Australian sands are providing the best weapon of slowing the monster craft to date.

  Conjecture impostulates that a rendezvous is planned with these two Desert wanderers In the Strzelecki Desert, North of the Flinders Mountain Range. Together, they may be able to free their companion trapped upon Kangaroo island.

  When the unlucky blighter landed in the Bight, it was this unhappy beach onto which the monster crawled. He has been standing on the Easternmost point of the island ever since.

  ---

  “I say, like the wistful spores of a dandelion that has been blown upon by a child, the forces of Man have been scattered before the evil breath of our foes, eh hem?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am, United States Federal forces have been soundly defeated after throwing everything they had against our enemies. Military units ain’t even bothering to reunite. In a shuffling column of beaten men and women, the vanquished walk away and the few that remain ain’t much to look at.”

  There is open weeping all about.

  Everyone is scared witless, and without a lick of sense.

  A hollow eyed preacher wanders among the displaced citizenry. His slumping shoulders, slack features and listless gait, when added to his earth seeking mouth ends, form a perfect picture of misery looking for company.

  “Repent, for the end times are upon us!” he wails to his dispassionate congregation. “It’s the time as was foretold in the book of Revelation! It’s the four horsemen of the Apocalypse! There they sit, on our Capitol’s lawns, as was written in the Book!”

  “Yeah, roight!” a smart-alecky Sergeant mockingly rejoins the plaintive and pleading padre. “Do you mean to say, that the four horsemen are not men, do not ride horses, and come from Mars? You’re stretching your scriptures a bit there, ya ol’ fart.”

  “You’ll git yers, sonny!” the parson of piss passionately imparts.

  “Phrrrttt!” his non-com comedic critic intelligently replies to the kooky clergyman.

  “I make the time at about ten P.M., y’all. It’s been about an hour and a half since we crawled up outta the river. Most of Washington’s defenders have fled, and given over the fight. There are still a few, such as ourselves, who are more or less standing by to see what’s gonna follow. Looking around the area, I see there ain’t no open campfires. Most of the few that have stayed here on the Potomac’s West bank, have been stealthy in the use of fire. There are plenty of houses still standing, at least, standing well enough, to find a hidden fireplace. Many folks, like us, need to get dry after the swim to safety following our route from battle.”

  “Oh, Ichabod, I just don’t see what we can do.” Valuria sadly intones. “Truly we and many others fought with distinguished valor today. We have nothing to be ashamed of. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Ichabod. You fought as bravely as anyone.”

  “Thank you, Miss Englehart, but I just can’t come to grips with giving up while I’m still moving.”

  “We’re naughtte giving up, Ichabod, my boy,” Sir Paul consoles me, “we are regrouping for our next attack.”

  “There is another matter that I think we should address,” Miss Plumtartt injects. “I had the impression that this fresh pair of Martian monstrosities appeared from out of the West. In my mind, they are the pair from the West Virginia meteor impact, and the subsequent attack on the adjacent steel town of Weirton. If these are indeed our invaders of Weirton, where then are our guests from Pennsylvania? I should think that we would be expecting the arrival of the Bethlehem duo at any time.”

  “Wow, I hadn’t thought of that, Miss Plumtartt. Gee, it sure is gonna be tough to beat those mechanicals when their ranks swell from four to six.”

  “I wish I had me one of those mechanicals.” Clarabelle muses wistfully. “I’d be squashing those Martians into marshmallows.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing, Miss Nightingale. I am mechanically minded, and I am reasonably confident that given the opportunity, I could manage one of these monstrosities. Though, my conjecture involves the use of two sets of three, three digited limbs. And from what I’ve seen, even if you are three limbed and fingered, these are not easy contraptions to operate.”

  “Now.”

  This single, monosyllabic word is presented to us from Miss Plumtartt. It is the declaration of a proclamation.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Plumtartt?”

  “Now, Mr. Temperance, as in, right now.” Miss Plumtartt looks me directly in the eye and clearly means every syllable uttered. “I want you to go back over there, commandeer one of those blasted mechanicals, and wreak havoc upon our enemies. You must immediately go and destroy those machines.”

  “Just go capture a Martian war machine and use it to wreck three other Martian war machines, Miss Plumtartt? Is that all?”

  “No, Mr. Temperance, weren’t you listening?” The strength of character this girl possesses is indomitable. She has not blinked yet. “Not only must you destroy these three other machines, but you must dispatch the two Bethlehem Behemoths upon their arrival, also.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “It is my belief that our enemies are right now in a highly intoxicated state from having so generously fed upon our fellows. They see us as beaten and in full retreat. I think that a clandestine-oriented raid at this unexpected juncture might just be our one opportunity to heist one of their infernal craft.”

  “Hey,” cries Clarabelle, “I had a pretty good idea after all! And here I thought
I was just kidding!”

  “I think this mission calls for a fast crossing of the river.” Miss Plumtartt continues. “We’ll need a good crew of rowers. We may need a dependable team of good soldiers to create a diversion if necessary. The units are now without command or leadership. Let us disperse and raise our army. We meet back again in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll do what I can to recruit some volunteers Ma’am, but after a day and night of defeats, morale is as low as a nightcrawler worm’s belly.”

  “Persist, Mr. Temperance, for time is of the essence.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’ve noticed Miss Nightingale sure does have a lot of fellas following behind her. She is really good at gathering troops! I do not think she has a problem getting boys to do as she likes.”

  “Ah, I see that a quickly gathered force of thirty troops, give or take, is meeting back at our original camp. It is not an easy thing to do, to gather these few men, for the fight has been kicked from one and all. Every soul left in the vicinity is a beaten wretch. I am glad to say that we can still find a handful of volunteers willing to give a little more.”

  “Looks like Sir Paul is waiting on us. He is sitting by himself, with his head bowed, but in a place where we can all see him.”

  “Quite so, but if you’ll notice, everyone is looking to him expectantly. I don’t know how, but a little tingle of electricity crackles through our assembly. Sir Paul Whitmore is the originating source of this imagined current.”

  Slowly, ponderously, the tremendous head begins to rise.

  The weighted eyelids are withdrawn to reveal smoldering orbs of purpose.

  The unblinking lanterns of Sir Paul’s powerfully lit peepers survey his spellbound audience.

  “What sort of men are we?”

  Sir Paul Whitmore’s loud and questioning tone crashes against us.

  “If we are ever to face our loved ones again, we must ask ourselves now: what sort of men are we?”