B00M0CSLAM EBOK

by Mason Elliott

  The last man facing Steven ran away, vomiting.

  But screaming, bleeding, dying men attracted the main group of assassins very quickly.

  By then Jerriel had gotten free of the net and had retrieved her staff.

  “Run!” David shouted. “Get out of here, Steven. Take Jerriel back to your place!”

  “I’m staying with you!” Steven shouted from David’s left, a fierce light in his eyes for one so young.

  Jerriel took up a place on the right.

  “We stay, Daeved!”

  No more time. He readied his weapons. “Oh, hell! There’s too many of them!”

  There were.

  At least sixty of them poured around the houses and down the street at them.

  Jerriel stepped forward and cried out, with words that hurt the ears.

  Several dark, shadowy forms of nameless creatures shot out from her body like exploding shadows and fell upon the advancing attackers, ripping and tearing into them, keeping over half of them busy.

  But she collapsed on the ground, apparently spent from the effort of unleashing them on the mob.

  David stood in front of her with no ally but a small teenager, however fierce.

  Against nearly thirty remaining killers.

  “You can run, Steven. Get away. Get help!”

  Steven readied his blades and shouted. “I will not run from cowards and scum!”

  David laughed and turned his face to their foes once more. What a man that boy was going to be one day–if he survived.

  “Then let’s face them together!” David told him.

  They cut into the first few attackers that reached them.

  From every angle possible, arrows and crossbow bolts sliced through the attackers. Defenders poured out of the houses and around the streets.

  In moments, the battle ended with most of the traitors cut down.

  Few of them reached David and Steven where they stood at bay protecting Jerriel.

  And those who reached them did not last long.

  The dark, shadowy creatures that attacked the other traitors finished their lethal work at about the same time. Once done, they slipped back like shadows, somehow reabsorbed by Jerriel.

  She came to a short while later. Troops escorted them to militia HQ, surrounded by thousands of loyal forces.

  Attackers from the coup attempt still raged throughout the town in many places. Word went quickly to Dirk and Belinda, to see if they were all right.

  But the Blackwoods had sensed something amiss and quietly slipped away that night with their guards around them. They had fled east, and hidden out at Kevin Policinski’s house when the coup started.

  Yet their house had been ransacked, even worse than by the monsters.

  Go figure.

  By morning, they learned who led the coup–a former disgruntled city council member named Stevenson, denied a spot on the new town council because of his overtly racist remarks. But others had still sided with him, including, unfortunately, a handful of police and National Guard; and some retired military and federal employees, including three militia commanders; and a bunch of goons.

  They had all secretly decided that they knew what was best for everyone else. They meant to take over and put down anyone who could oppose them. Three other militia commanders died that night, three remaining town council members, and many other police and National Guard people they deemed as threats to them and their power grab.

  Regular people, all murdered; them and even some of their families.

  More waste of good people that Michiana would miss greatly, especially if the monsters came back in force.

  How stupid it all was.

  David still couldn’t believe that people could be this dumb. What drove them to do such things?

  Just a waste. A stupid, terrible waste.

  When it became clear that the coup had failed, Stevenson and his cronies retreated south of town and set up a base in the old 4-H fairgrounds by force. They had about three or four thousand followers from the militia and their families. Lots of other goons and sympathizers also joined them, unfortunately.

  They started calling themselves “White Town,” of all things, and beat and expelled anyone they wanted to, mostly non-whites. They took up defensive positions and braced for a counterattack from the town council that they had tried to kill.

  Martial law was fully reinstated, and militia troops still loyal to the town council protected the south against the betrayers. Stevenson and the rest of his murderers were branded as criminals, with orders to kill them on sight.

  But there would be no civil war. That would cost both side more idiotic losses that they could not afford.

  Dirk Blackwood and the other thirteen remaining militia commanders decided to merely contain the violent fools, and let them stew in their own juices for a while. They and theirs would not be given any further assistance, and most of their leaders were already marked for execution on sight.

  The traitors controlled some parcels of farm land to the south, but not enough.

  It would be seen how they liked being shunned and ostracized from the main community come fall and winter. Their many miscalculations would become clearer and clearer to them as time went on.

  Especially if the monster hordes returned at some point in force.

  Perhaps then the rebel fools would forsake and turn over their criminal leaders to justice for their crimes.

  There had been enough senseless bloodshed for one night. Wasting more lives and resources to wipe out several thousand misguided idiots was not a very good option for anyone. Plenty of other important issues and tasks still remained.

  But the coup attempt shook up everyone and added to the general malaise and paranoia–already at record levels.

  People started to question and look askance at one another where they hadn’t before, wondering if their neighbors or the next person down the street was a closet traitor or sympathizer with the traitors.

  And who knew? Maybe some of them were.

  That growing chaos and uncertainty didn’t help things much, either.

  Now a lot more time and wasted effort had to be made on internal security, making sure that militia groups and leaders remained loyal to the local populace as a whole, and not just to themselves. Or to one faction.

  They didn’t need a bunch of petty warlords rising up to cause trouble.

  Again, what a stupid waste in almost every way.

  David and Jerriel had three dozen, hand-picked troops camped around their home the very next day. A unit of twelve guards went with them anywhere they went.

  David did take time to point out to Fred and Rosalyn just how brave young Steven had been in saving their lives. Without him, David knew for certain that he would have been killed, and Jerriel would now be a captive of the traitors.

  Fred and Rosalyn hugged their boy with pride. Steven blushed and grew embarrassed. David continued to note the young boy’s deep crush on Jerriel.

  Steven must have been in heaven when Jerriel hugged him close to her and kissed him on the forehead, calling him her ‘valiant young heroo’.

  A crush on Jerriel?

  That was certainly easy to understand.

  David felt much the same way.

  46

  The relentless day-and-night grind at the front resumed like a machine, as soon as the spring storms let up.

  Mason divided the battlefield time of the Pistolero between the day and night shifts. He would rest for four hours, and then fight for four hours. Then he mixed up the four-hour blocks in an attempt to keep the enemy off guard.

  The Shooting Stars had to work in tandem, so they could not split up. But they fought for twelve hours at a time, and then rested for twelve hours.

  The ten new fledgling militia sorcerers attempted help hold the line during the down times, but they were still limited to only three to five magical blasts from each of them during their shifts. Five mages were kept on the southern line. Five mages went t
o the western line.

  The defenders held the tenth defensive line for three stubborn days.

  There were only fifteen defensive lines total, and losing them all would push any remaining defenders into Mishawaka proper.

  The militia fought another fighting retreat back to the eleventh defensive line. It seemed to be the only military action they had mastered. They certainly had had enough practice.

  In some of their free time, Mason and Blondie both went to the stables to help care for their horses and relax. Today, Mace used a water brush to work out Winger’s mane and tail.

  Blondie was already finished with Patton, and had started grooming sweet little Ginger. Both of them had a special affinity for their three horses.

  Thulkara’s big brute Goliath was still a rat bastard to almost everyone but her. He hurt other handlers regularly; if he could bite or stomp on them, or sidle them into a wall, he would.

  Further away from their unit, Mason heard a couple of horses scream and grunt in pain. Both his and Blondie’s heads snapped up at those distinctive sounds.

  “Let’s check that out,” Mason said, leaving his hat behind. “That doesn’t sound right.

  Near another stockade for another militia unit, they came around a corner and beheld a terrible sight.

  Four or five drunken militia troops, who looked like supply people, were in the process of beating and terrorizing two older, much less serviceable horses.

  One horse was an ancient Appaloosa mare with a swayed back, the other some kind of liver-chestnut, farm horse gelding that wasn’t much younger. From the whiter hair around their eyes and muzzles, and the length of their front teeth when they screamed, both horses had to be well into their twenties and had seen better days.

  Certainly better than this one.

  Both horses were not only tethered, but hobbled as well. And the bullies tormenting them–three men and two women, all of them middle aged–passed around a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. They cursed and laughed at the poor, terrified horses, left to the tender mercies of these drunks.

  One of the women kicked the farm horse hard in the brisket with her boot. The old gelding grunted and almost went down to its knees. It barely caught itself and stood there shivering and shaking with a wide, pitiful look in its eyes.

  The biggest, hairiest, and dirtiest of the five sots snatched the bottle away, guzzled a long draught, and then wiped his greasy face as he bellowed. “Aw, that’s nuthin. Take another, you worthless nag!”

  He swung a length of pipe and cracked the Appaloosa mare right in the cheekbone, where her face and head already looked swollen and bloody from other similar blows.

  The old horse screamed and bashed her head into the nearby building, trying to get away.

  Mason had to resist the urge to gun them all down right then and there. “What in the depths of hell do you people think you’re doing?” Mason demanded.

  The drunks staggered back a moment. Then they saw nothing but two angry college-aged guys glaring at them.

  Mason forgot how young he and Blondie looked without their hats. And they never really wore militia uniforms or sported any rank.

  The big, fat, smelly leader snarled at them. He was hairy and six foot-four, at least, but most of that was flab. “This don’t concern you punks none. Mind your own business, and keep walking.”

  Mason ignored him and looked at the others. “All of you with the militia? With one of the supply units?”

  “What’s it to you, boys?” the woman who had kicked the farm horse shouted.

  “Who’s your commanding officer?” Blondie asked.

  “Lieutenant Arnold Spelling,” another drunk cheerfully piped up, obviously feeling no pain.

  “Shut up, Lou!” the others hissed at him.

  “Yeah, nobody say nothing,” the leader said, smacking the same length of bloody pipe in his dirty hands as he caught Mason’s eye. “You need to clear out of here, boy. Afore I gave you the same I’m giving this here nag.”

  Two of the drunks had loaded crossbows handy, but not in their hands.

  Mason grinned slightly. “Oh, mister. I would dearly love to see you try.” He flipped the right side of his duster back, displaying his row of steel pistols hanging down his one side.

  All five of the drunks nearly soiled themselves right then and there.

  “Jeezus! It’s the Pistolero.”

  “He’s a killer!”

  “Please…don’t kill us!”

  “Please, we were just having some fun.”

  “These horses are worthless. We might as well put them out of their misery.”

  “You can shoot them yourself, if you like!”

  The leader dropped his length of pipe in the dirt and all five of them held up their hands in the air as if they were in an old Western movie holdup.

  Their faces went pale and their mouths drooped slack and open.

  Mason never even touched his guns. He just sat nearby on some crates in the shade and waited for Blondie to fetch Major Avery and tell him what was going on.

  Avery came by with two squads and promptly arrested the five drunks and ordered the two old horses confiscated.

  Anyone looking at the pair could see that they had been given a rough time.

  Avery was red-faced when he unloaded on the drunks. They were almost as terrified of the Major as they were Mason’s pistols.

  “Drinking on duty when you should be working? Beating horses? You assholes are done working for the militia. Finished. You’re lucky I don’t have you all horsewhipped. I still might. Do any of you have any idea how scarce and valuable horses are right now? Any horse, even old ones such as these? If handled properly and cared for right, they can still perform valuable service.”

  None of the drunks had any answer for the major.

  Avery turned away from them in disgust. “Get them out of my sight and hold them under arrest, pending notification of their commanding officer in the supply corps. Give them nothing but water, and either crackers or bread. Nothing else.”

  Mason and Blondie did their best to comfort the two old horses, and helped take them back to the stable for their unit’s mounts. Their cavalry people came over to help, and once they saw the condition of the two horses and heard the story, they were livid. For a cavalry rider, a horse could mean his or her life or death.

  Later that day, the five drunks were dishonorably discharged and promptly kicked out of the militia camp and told not to come back.

  A unit of cavalry troops just happened by, and stomped all five of those morons into the mud. Both Mason and Blondie heard the story and grinned.

  “I’ve always detested bullies,” Mason said.

  “You know you’re just on the razor’s edge of becoming one, yourself,” Blondie told him. He pointed at Mason’s rigs. “Those pistols give you power over others. It’s all too tempting to use that power to intimidate others and make them fear you. Isn’t it?”

  “I want them to fear me. You speaking from experience or something, Blondie?”

  “Maybe. Just be careful, Mace. People tend to hate what they fear. It’s just too damn easy to become a bully and make others crawl on their bellies for your amusement.”

  “Why is that, Blondie?”

  His friend grinned. “Because it’s so damn fun.”

  Mason thought about the truth of that. He’d those drunks shaking in their shit just by flashing his iron their way. There hadn’t been any need to draw. His friend Blondie was right. Power was seductive, and using it came far too easy. War was one thing. Dealing with regular folks was something different. He needed to maintain a clear perspective on that.

  Mason had no desire to become the same kind of jerk he despised.

  #

  Military observers from Mishawaka–and even a few from Elkhart–managed to come online that evening in serious numbers, to get an experience of what they themselves would be facing firsthand once South Bend fell.

  Everyone on both sides seemed
to see that eventual fact as only a matter of time.

  The eleventh line held. Then two nights later, the enemy made a massive push.

  This was no longer a grinding assault.

  This was an all-out attack.

  It became clear very quickly that the enemy was hitting them with everything they had, in an attempt to break the defenders for good and crush them.

  All of the remaining defenses were in danger of complete collapse.

  As luck would have it, the Pistolero was off duty when the attack began. He and his friends had only slept for about three hours.

  Major Avery woke Mason and the unit personally. “Mace, we have to get everyone on the line. We’ve never seen an enemy attack this large.”

  Mason blinked and simply nodded.

  This was bad.

  When they got into position with their supporting and reserve forces, they were poised on the extreme left flank, halfway to the twelfth line of defense.

  “We’re going to try to cut them off and break their front lines, similar to the way we did once before,” Avery said.

  Mason had come up through the reserves. Old people, women, and kids, many of them competent archers by now, but not so good in stand-up, hand-to-hand fighting.

  This was going to get real bad, real fast.

  Everyone was scared, including Mason himself.

  “Prepare yourselves!” Major Avery called out.

  Mason had his three remaining reloading teams following close by him with their runners and reserve runners. A fourth replacement team was still in the process of being trained.

  The massive ranks of enemy forces surged into view. Their numbers seemed endless.

  Enemy mages, and flight after flight of merc archers and siege engines rolled up, along with hordes of ravening monsters.

  They caught up to the retreating militia and slammed into them hard.

  “Sortie, forward and attack at will!” Major Avery shouted.

  At first, the counterattack sortie did its job. The Pistolero blasted the way ahead, and the new black powder shotguns and their experimental loads were devastating. They cut a wide swath of destruction through the enemy and nearly halted the advance.

  The militia and reserve archers kept up a punishing rate of fire.