War Cry

by Brian McClellan

  Natal is slumped over a boulder, carbine in her hands, her body still and bloody. Her lover, Donilo, lies at her feet, hands outstretched, riddled with submachine gun fire as he reaches for her.

  Commander Giado lies splayed in the middle of the camp. He is surrounded by enemy corpses and grips two pistols, both of them spent, his body a mangled mess. He has been dispatched by a shot to the head, as if he refused to die from a dozen other wounds.

  I am exhausted. Tears streak my bloody, smoke-stained cheeks and I rock unsteadily on my feet. I have nothing left to give, and each step is as if over a mountain. Through my hazy vision I see a cluster of enemy troops, carbines hanging from their shoulders, and my breath catches in my throat as I see their prize.

  They stand around a small group of kneeling figures. Selvie’s shirt is covered in more blood splotches than I can count. Bellara stares at the dirt, expressionless, her hand clutching at a bloody shoulder. Our medic, Harado, is unwounded, but he has never been a fighter. Vicente is slumped face-first in the dirt, trembling, clutching his stomach. They even have Aleta, her pretty face torn across the right cheek and bleeding profusely.

  Someone, perhaps the leader of this expedition, is asking Aleta a question. She stares over his shoulder, proudly, refusing to answer. He backhands her hard enough to knock her on her side, but she crawls back to her knees and resumes her stubborn stare.

  I can feel the fury churning in my belly. I beg my body to give me something else with which to fight. I search deep inside, trying to well up the strength to dash forward, but it is like dipping a bucket in an empty well, and it is all I can do to limp toward the small group with my gnarled, Changed knuckles dragging on the ground.

  Their commander asks Aleta another question. It is more forceful, demanding. She opens her mouth, then stops. I see her eyes land upon me. They widen, fearful, and her face seems to change. The stubbornness melts away, and she slumps inwardly, as if she has given up the fight.

  The enemy commander laughs and leans toward her, repeating his questions.

  Her lips tighten, and she spits at him. The enemy commander reels back, blood spattering his face and clean uniform. He shouts, kicking her in the stomach, then draws his pistol.

  I want to ask her what she is doing. I silently beg her to stop fighting—to surrender and live through this thing. Selvie and Harado attempt to gain their feet. My friends scream at the enemy commander, who waves his pistol under their noses and then puts the barrel against Aleta’s forehead.

  She meets my eyes, and I realize with startling clarity that she is buying me time. She sees that I am spent, and must know from my state that I have no strength. And yet she still has faith to try and gain me the time I need to sneak up on these bastards.

  The enemy commander shouts in Aleta’s ear, shoving the pistol hard against her forehead. She leans into it, looking him in the eyes, then turning her head toward me. She smiles at me at the enemy commander pulls the trigger, and the bullet snuffs out her life.

  It is the strength I need. I surge forward, that smile frozen in my mind as my steps become quick and forceful.

  The enemy’s men are too busy beating my friends with the stocks of their carbines to see me coming. I do not kill the commander. I open his stomach before he can scream, and then I turn on his men.

  There are around a dozen enemies left. I know that two of them are Changers, but I do not know which they are. I slash and cut, moving as quickly as I dare. My vision is a haze, my hearing almost nonexistent. Only the image of Aleta’s smile floating in my head keeps me going as I bury my talons in a stomach, open a throat with my claws, and bite the stock of a carbine in two as it is thrust in my face.

  A pistol shot goes off under my elbow, and I tear off the arm of the man holding the weapon. A shotgun blast to the base of my spine drives me to my knees, and I turn to take another blast in the chest. I recover and maul the woman holding the shotgun before she can reload, and I leap for a man shoving a new clip into his machine pistol.

  The enemy Changer tackles me from the side. He is smaller than me, but he is relatively fresh, and I feel his talons tear into my shoulders as we wrestle in the dust. I lean into him, letting the talons tear deeper, and bite off his face with two snaps of my jaw.

  I leave him screaming and writhing to finish off his comrades. Three more enemy soldiers empty their weapons into me, the hot shot hitting my body like stinging nettles on the end of a blackjack. Two die quickly. One tries to run, and is shot in the back by Selvie, who has recovered a pistol from the enemy commander.

  I stumble to one side, my Changed body slick with blood—my own and that of my enemies. My legs give out and I fall to my knees. I am barely conscious as the remaining members of my platoon re-arm themselves and regain their feet. I don’t even have the energy to wince at the seven blasts from the shotgun it takes to put down the enemy Changer, or feel satisfaction when Selvie executes the commander I disemboweled.

  I feel someone touch me and I jerk around, almost snagging Bellara with my claws. She gives me a moment to recognize her before coming closer. She puts her hands on my cheeks and looks me in the eyes, and calls for Harado.

  “Where is the other Changer?” I ask. My voice is barely audible through the twisted nature of my Changed form, and my own weakness.

  “Garcia killed him with the machine gun,” Bellara responds.

  Killed by a machine gun. Hardly able to call himself a Changer. I try to chuckle, but it comes out as a gurgle. Harado tells me to lie down. I ignore him, and make Bellara help me to my feet.

  I remain standing, ostensibly a guard as Selvie and Harado sweep the canyon, though I doubt I could move if even a single enemy appeared to attack me. They find three more of our platoon still holed up in the caves, and I can see the fear and wonder in their eyes as they come out to see the destruction that has been wrought.

  I remain Changed, fearful that my wounds would kill me on the spot if I become human again. Bellara remains at my side, clutching my leathery, blood-slick hand. She talks to me in a quiet voice.

  “We thought you died from the fall out of the cargo plane,” she tells me. “But Rodrigo scouted the next day, and claims he saw you hiding in a valley. We’ve been waiting for you to return ever since.”

  I try not to cry at the news that they waited for me, and I stay quiet with the terrible knowledge that their waiting got most of them killed. I try to look past the carnage, noting the crates of supplies stacked in the mouth of the caves, and tell myself that they were able to eat like kings for the last week of their lives.

  “Rodrigo . . .” I manage.

  “I know,” Bellara says, her face somber. “I saw Benny go down.”

  I want to tell her that he was still alive when I left him, that she should send someone down to check on him, but I know that he is already dead, and the plain outside our canyon is dangerous. Telling her he might be alive would be a cruelty.

  Besides, there is no one to send. Everyone is wounded—I see now that even Harado’s hand has been hurt by shrapnel—and Selvie’s venture to the mouth of our canyon ends with a report that there is still movement down in the foothills. I am unable to give them any guess as to the number of enemy wounded I left alive, or if there was a squad or two that I missed.

  Bellara reveals that she dropped her illusions when she took a bullet in the shoulder, and was unable to get them back up because a Changer took her captive. They singled her out, wanted her alive. I can hear the catch in her throat as she says this, though her expression remains unchanged. I put my grotesque head on her shoulder and close my eyes, hoping she takes it as some sign of comfort.

  I tell them of Paco’s defection and the loss of so many of our soldiers to the enemy amnesty. I tell them I gave away our position, and repeat myself so that they can mete out any judgment they see fit. A third repetition passes without comment, and I feel hollow inside. They do not judge me. They will not judge me.

  Selvie ignores her wounds and begins
to organize a retreat farther into the mountains. We must regroup, heal, and return to Bava, she says. We must tell them what happened here.

  Bellara gently leaves my side. She winks from existence a dozen paces away, and I try to call out for her, but I have no strength. Each pain reemerges with movement. I wonder if I will have to remain Changed for weeks before I am healthy enough to be human again. Despite Harado’s bandages, I have lost a great deal of blood.

  I wonder if I am dying, and find it curious that I don’t dwell on my coming death. I think that perhaps no one wishes to face their own mortality. Perhaps self-denial is the last pleasure a soldier feels.

  I do not die, though the hours tick by. My surviving friends move the bodies and attend to our wounded. Their wounded are shoved to one side and forgotten, or forced at gunpoint to help Selvie inventory what we will need to retreat into the mountains. Bellara returns, and reports that there are only a handful of the enemy left able to fight, and they have concerned themselves with trying to repair one of their jeeps. She also reports motorbikes on the eastern horizon.

  I try to get myself to move at that news. I remind them of Paco’s desertion, and that the enemy still has more men. Selvie seems to be the only one with the strength to keep moving, and insists we arm ourselves. The enemy wounded are forced into the mouth of the canyon, where their presence will foul enemy grenades and gunfire.

  I soon hear the sound of the motorbikes. By the pitch of the engines I guess they are ours, which means Paco and his cronies have come to finish the job. Bellara tells me to relax, and gives me a carbine even though my Changed fingers are too big for the guard. We hunker down behind a boulder and wait. I close my eyes, trying to gather my strength for one last fight.

  I will die ripping Paco’s throat out, or in the attempt.

  The sound of the motorbikes comes almost to the very entrance of the canyon before cutting out. I can hear many voices. There is shouting between the enemy wounded and these new arrivals, and several minutes pass before a figure appears in the mouth of the canyon.

  I recognize Marie. She is in her human form, her submachine gun slung under her arm. She surveys the carnage, head held high, nodding to herself. “Friendly!” she shouts.

  “Another step and I will kill you,” Bellara replies. She sits beside me, and I can tell the blood loss has taken a lot out of her. I wonder if she can even hit a stationary target.

  Marie snorts. “Don’t be stupid,” she says. “We’re from Bava.”

  “We know about the amnesty,” Selvie responds. She is along the opposite canyon wall, covering Bellara and myself with a rifle.

  Marie opens her mouth, then shuts it again. Her eyes fall on me and she shakes her head in disbelief. I want to taunt her, to tell her the ambush did not work, and that her new friends will think she has betrayed them, and that her amnesty will not be honored. I want to tell her she is a traitor, and I want to kill her with my own two hands.

  Slowly, carefully, Marie takes the submachine gun off her shoulder and sets it on the ground. She takes a few cautious steps forward.

  “She’s a Changer,” I tell Bellara. “Don’t let her get closer.”

  Bellara fires a warning shot that ricochets off the stones at Marie’s feet. I’m not so sure it was meant to be a warning shot, but she reloads and holds her fire.

  “We just want to talk,” Marie insists. I am impressed at her ability to remain calm. My own blood is racing, and I feel we are on the cusp of a terrible last stand, with Marie’s Changer and infantry rushing into the canyon while we all slaughter each other.

  “I don’t trust you,” I croak.

  “Teado, you don’t know what’s going on. Come here and speak to me.”

  I decide not to tell her that I am unable to move. I look across the canyon to Selvie, who shakes her head. We have no way out; we have missed our chance at a safe retreat. I wonder if we can take Marie captive, but dismiss the thought. She would kill us all in close quarters.

  Her weapon still on Marie, Bellara stands up from behind cover and walks across the canyon. I can hear a whispered consultation with Selvie and the others, and then she returns to me.

  “What is happening?” I ask.

  Bellara doesn’t respond. I can see Selvie setting down her pistol. She comes out of hiding and heads toward Marie. “We’re going to talk,” Bellara finally answers.

  “Don’t trust her,” I repeat.

  Bellara is tight-lipped.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “For what?” Bellara asks. We both watch Selvie cautiously cross the corpse-ridden ground.

  “For everything. For falling out of the cargo plane. For stumbling on those traitors, and telling them our location. I’m sorry I won’t get to see you dance.” The words tumble out, and I’m not sure what part of me is speaking. I can barely move my lips.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Bellara says. “We’ll get out of this.” I can tell she does not believe it.

  Selvie and Marie stand several paces apart. Selvie is tensed to run. Marie seems relaxed. They speak for minutes, and Selvie shakes her head each time Marie gestures. The gesturing becomes more desperate, until at long last Selvie gives a tired nod. She follows Marie and both figures disappear from view.

  “It’s a trap!” I say, trying to struggle to my feet. Bellara holds me down, though I am so much bigger and stronger. I try not to pass out from the effort of fighting her, until sweat covers my face. Only Selvie’s reappearance takes the fight out of me.

  Selvie jogs back into camp, her face animated. She is followed at a cautious distance by Marie, and several soldiers behind her. They are all armed, and one of those soldiers is Martin, her cousin. My hair stands on end.

  “Put your weapons down!” Selvie orders. “They are friendlies. Everyone put your weapons down!”

  This time Bellara isn’t able to keep me down. I surge to my feet. “No! It’s a trick, don’t let them . . .”

  Selvie throws herself toward me. “Teado, you must calm down. It isn’t a trick!”

  Before anyone can make sense of the confusion, Marie and her men are among us. My friends are disarmed, and Marie crosses the distance to stand beside Selvie. She looks down at me with what I take as a look of arrogant pity. I summon all my reserves and take a swipe at her.

  Martin Changes before my blow can land. He catches my arm and clamps me by the shoulders, wrestling me into submission with a distressingly small amount of effort. Several soldiers gather around me and, despite my calls for Selvie and Bellara not to be tricked, I am forced from my hiding spot.

  They half carry, half drag me to the mouth of the canyon. I can see Benny still smoking off on the plains, and the destruction left in the wake of the ambush, battle, and my own counterattack. There are about forty new motorbikes down beyond the runway, and I see Marie’s men combing the battlefield. Despite their betrayal, they are still wearing jackets with the Bava militia patch on the shoulder.

  A gunshot rings out on the plain. Another follows it. There is a scream, and I look to see that Marie’s men are executing the enemy wounded.

  I turn to look over my shoulder, confused, and find Marie standing beside me. She has a satisfied look on her face.

  In the distance, a tall plume of smoke rises from the enemy air base.

  “What has happened?” I ask Marie—the last words I am able to speak before consciousness finally fails me.

  * * *

  The nurses tell me that I am in a hospital in Bava. It does not look like a hospital—the walls are too clean, the ceiling is intact, and the lights do not flicker. I am in a single room, and it feels tiny and isolated compared to the rows of wounded I have seen in other hospitals. They claim it is a hospital for very important people, and that it is in the southeast corner of Bava where it was spared the worst of the bombing.

  I do not know whether to believe them. I remember the overheard conversation between Paco and Marie, and the fight, and the bodies of my friends. I feel as if I cannot
trust anything, even my own senses.

  I do not feel like a very important person.

  I am human again. My body is covered in cuts and bruises, and I have broken an arm and a wrist, but I seem to have avoided any permanent damage.

  I have vague memories of being carried, then transported by car, then by plane, and once again by car. The nurses speak my language. They seem far too kind. I wonder if this is some kind of trick, and demand to see Selvie and Bellara. The nurses claim not to know either of those names.

  I am too worn out, my body still weak from blood loss and starvation, to fight them. I sleep through the night, and wake again to daylight. A figure sits beside my bed, and at first I take him for a nurse.

  I tell myself, upon a second glance, that my eyes are playing tricks on me. Rodrigo sits in a rickety wheelchair. His head and chest are wrapped in white bandages, and his arm is in a sling, but his eyes are open, staring at the pages of a book clutched in one hand.

  I must make some kind of noise, because he turns toward me and his thin face lights up. “Teado!” he says. “They told me you were awake, but I did not dare to hope.”

  I lick my lips, and try to remember what Bellara has told me about seeing through illusions. This is a trick. It has to be. Rodrigo was barely alive when I pulled him from Benny’s wreck. I reach out, and Rodrigo puts aside his book to take my hand in his, then kisses my knuckles. It sounds like Rodrigo. It feels like Rodrigo. It acts like Rodrigo.

  “You’re alive?” is all I can manage.

  “I am at that, my friend,” he responds with gusto. “They tell me that a Changer pulled me from the wreckage, so there is someone out there who I owe a debt, but . . .” He makes a gesture as if this mysterious wizard has disappeared into thin air. His smile is lopsided, and disappears for a moment. “Benny, I’m afraid, did not survive the crash.”

  I want to reach across and slap him for mentioning that machine before our friends, but I know it is just in his nature. “Your wounds?” I ask.