Dawn of the Mad
Brandon J. Huckabay
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locations or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 Brandon J. Huckabay
Astigbooks
Humble, Texas 77396 and Caloocan City, Philippines 1405
www.astigbooks.com
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form (printed or digital) without permission of the author.
This book can be ordered on the internet at www.amazon.com
ISBN-13: 978-0615840949
ISBN-10: 0615840949
Cover art by Duncan Long
Author Photo by George Gaylor
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
Acknowledgements
There were many people who helped along the way either by reading rough drafts, offering suggestions, or helping with editing. Anyway, you know who you are and I thank you.
I would like to thank my wife Rose who has taught me a lot about life and not giving up on my dreams.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
Corporal Joachim Scotts sat uncomfortably in the bottom of the muddy trench. The visor on his helmet was raised, letting the raindrops splash on his youthful, albeit bearded, face. He hadn’t the time or the inclination to shave because of the rapid pace of the campaign. His body armor kept pinching him as he shifted position in the cramped confines of the trench, trying in vain to get comfortable.
The sudden escalation of the war had prevented, or at least delayed him from fulfilling his dream of becoming a fighter pilot. Halfway through the pilot’s course, he had been yanked out and drafted into the assault infantry, subjected to being soaked to the bone, on the remains of this god-forsaken planet. He clutched his battle rifle and wondered what day would be his last.
“An offensive is coming.” Sergeant Matthias’s weary voice trailed through the thick fog that had settled on the forward trench. He absent mindedly began drumming his fingers on the hilt of a large knife protruding from his belt.
“How do you know that, Sarge?” Scotts asked. “We haven’t been given an attack order.” Scotts bit off a piece of bread as he leaned back against a muddy trench wall. With his mouth partially full of dry, pasty bread, he continued, “or have we? I hope not.”
“No attack orders yet, but there are signs to look for when you’ve been out in this hell as long as I have.” As Matthias spoke, he stood up abruptly and slogged his way down the muddy trench. Scott’s got up dutifully and followed close behind. When Matthias reached a wooden ladder, he tugged on several of the rungs to test their strength. Satisfied that the ladder would hold his weight, Matthias climbed, pausing just below the lip of the trench. Snipers posed a constant risk. Matthias peered through his binoculars over the battle-scarred trench line, scanning the desolation of no- man’s-land. The thick fog enveloping the enemy trenches would prevent any sniper activity for now. An eerie quiet had settled in over the still, breezeless air, creating an almost supernatural feel, as if the men were fighting between worlds, in limbo. Sporadically, enemy soldiers could be heard talking in hushed voices, their voices drifting across the no-man’s-land. Through his binoculars Matthias saw numerous fires and smoldering remains of destroyed equipment from the last push on his thermal scan.
“You see anything?” asked Scotts.
“The engineers are digging our lines closer to the city. I imagine there will be a push soon.”
As he manually adjusted the light spectrum on his binoculars, the ghostly outline of the smoldering cityscape emerged faintly in his viewfinder, like a spirit emerging from its grave. Satisfied with his quick scan, Matthias climbed back down the ladder into the welcoming confines of his trench.
Assault Sergeant Roger Matthias was old by trooper standards, reflecting his ability to survive. He brushed his graying hair off his face, one that marked him as a serious, but calculating individual. His powerful frame contrasted sharply with that of his tall, thin protégé, Corporal Scotts, who was still fidgeting beside him. The kid was a near genius but could still joke and make him smile, in even the direst situation.
To Matthias’s left and right, dozens of weary troopers sat in stagnant water with their backs against the trench wall. Mud coated everything. Matthias’s uniform was no exception, caked with both mud and dried blood. Some of the blood was his, but most of it was not, and all of it resulted from the last push. The left breast pocket of his tunic sported a gold cross bearing a silver eagle with diamond claws, the infantry’s highest award for bravery. He tried his best to keep this decoration mud-free.
Most of the troopers now slept, taking advantage of the rare calm. The last push had proved horrendous for both sides. They had agreed to a temporary cease-fire to clear the dead, re-arm, and prepare for the next onslaught. The battle had been sickening cycle of death that seemed like it would never end. Of the troopers who were awake, some were writing messages to loved ones back home, holding on to hope that they would survive to return home. Others simply stared at nothing, too desensitized to care anymore. Many of them had accepted that death was inevitable; with the only real question being when would it come.
The trench showed signs of recent combat. Blood-soaked bandages littered the muddy ground, and spatters of blood decorated the earthen wall itself. Many of those who did not make it back to their lines were simply left to die; stretcher bearers could bring back only so many and some had fallen in areas too dangerous for the recovery crews to reach. The wounded men who were trapped in no-man’s-land faced death, sooner or later, without medical aid, food, or water.
“You smell that?” Matthias asked Scotts.
“No,” Scotts replied absentmindedly, not really trying to pick up the scent. “I can’t smell anything but the stench of the dead.” He longed for sleep, but sleep came and went whenever it pleased, not when he wanted it.
Matthias cocked his head back and inhaled deeply. “There. See? It’s hot chow in the rear. They always give us a hot meal before a big push.”
Scotts craned his own neck back and inhaled deeply to humor the sergeant. “Yes, I do smell it now,” he replied, somewhat surprised. Stale bread and cold mystery soup was the norm, except for what the sergeant said —a push usually meant a hot meal. His stomach suddenly rumbled, as if on cue, and he quickly remembered how hungry he actually was.
“Not the most ideal conditions for an offensive, but there must be one coming if the field kitchens are moved up,” Matthias noted.
“Sergeant?”
“What?” Matthias replied, slightly irritated. He fumbled around in his pack for probably the most valuable piece of equipment he had—his mess tin. It was nowhere to be found.
“The colonel has never let us down before, has he?” Scotts asked. “You’d know better than I do. I mean, you’ve been fighting a lot longer than I have.”
Matthias closed the flap on his pack and sat down inside the trench, avoiding a puddle of brackish water, and put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “I would follow the colonel anywhere,” he said, as he released a deep breath. “He is the only reason why we have not yet lost this war.”
His comments appeared to do little to soothe the apprehension in the young corporal’s face, so he added, “Stay by my side. I’ll keep you alive the best I can.”
Scotts managed a weak smile and changed the subject. “I never realized I would be fighting out here. I had high hopes of becoming a star liner captain once the war ended.”
Matthias’s buttocks began to get numb, and he shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable in the cram
ped trench. “Well, as I always say, this hell is my home. It’s been too long since I have seen a green blade of grass, or a bird for that matter. I’m not sure I would know what I would do if the war ended tomorrow.” Matthias pushed his soft cap over his eyes and continued. “Perhaps I’m already dead. Go find yourself some chow, kid.” He closed his eyes and almost immediately drifted off into a deep sleep.
I wish I could do that. Sleep seemed to be almost as elusive as the end of the war.
Scotts fished around inside his pack for his grey, woolen blanket. Finding it, he drew it up around his neck. To his dismay, it was wet. There wasn’t a dry part on his body. He was soaked, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had actually bathed. He had become accustomed to that, and to battle conditions in general. His first couple of combat actions had resulted in his bowels releasing involuntarily, but fortunately he had gotten past that.
About four months ago, an influx of conscripts and draftees from various service branches had arrived to help hold the line. Scotts had arrived with two dozen other confused and terrified souls straight from the main recruit depot, each of them loaded down with the bare necessities to fight: food, ammunition, weapons, and armor.
The conscripts had gone through recruit training, but no classroom or textbook could teach the grim realities of combat. The best teachers were those who had learned from their own experience the skills of adaptation and survival, but most of them were too valuable in the field to be brought back as instructors. It was customary to be assigned to an old hand at the front and Scotts felt himself fortunate that he had been assigned to Sergeant Matthias. Soon, if he survived, he would be considered one of the old hands.
Scotts began to wonder about the impending attack, and if it would actually take place, like the sergeant had predicted. The fog had remained in place for almost a week now. The regiment had tried a big push two days ago, attempting to utilize the fog to its own advantage in hiding its movement, but the effort failed dismally. The enemy counterattacked, with both sides suffering casualties and leaving many to die in no-man’s-land.
Visibility was less than a few feet, not enough to be able to aim and shoot someone. Scotts inhaled deeply once more, taking in the faint and distant aroma of the field kitchen.
Slowly, so as not to wake anybody, Scotts made his way down the overcrowded trench to the rear area. After several minutes of walking, he reached a large bunker dug underground. A field kitchen was indeed set up inside. The rear wall of the bunker featured a faded standard of a fanged wolf, with the word “Dreadwolves” painted in red script underneath. He grabbed his mess tin from his pack and held it out for the portly mess trooper. Without him even asking, his tin was filled to the top, almost overflowing. This was a double portion. To Scott’s delight, he detected what appeared to be chunks of meat in the thick, soupy mixture. The double portion provided a good clue that Matthias was right. With a big smile on his face, he walked out of the bunker and began to drink the gray, chunky porridge greedily, not even bothering to use his spoon. A strong, firm voice behind him interrupted his meal.
“I wouldn’t eat so fast, Trooper. It may be some time before full rations are brought up again.”
Scotts turned around and nearly dropped his mess tin as he came face to face with his regimental commander, Colonel Chuikova. The colonel, fully armored, removed his black helmet, cradling it in his left arm. Scotts came to attention but refrained from saluting because of their close proximity to the front. Saluting was forbidden as it would make officers tempting targets for enemy snipers. The colonel nodded and said in an almost fatherly voice, “Relax, corporal. Eat your chow.”
Scotts resumed drinking his gray sludge, although he made sure he went a little slower. Although he had been surprised by the colonel, he knew the colonel frequented the front lines, something unheard of among senior officers. As the war progressed, most of them were content to hide deep in underground bunkers, giving each other medals and making unrealistic demands on under strength units. The fact that most senior level staff officers were out of touch with conditions at the front had a profound impact on morale; yet orders were carried out without question. Scotts had never before seen the colonel in person. What he knew of the colonel he had learned from other troopers, particularly from Matthias. He had heard that the colonel had repeatedly turned down promotions, just so he could be with his men at the front.
The colonel stepped in front of Scotts and looked around him at his troopers. The ones who were awake nodded toward the colonel and whispered to each other. Scotts noticed that the colonel’s kinetic power armor was caked in mud. Very few officers owned kinetic armor suits; it was ancient technology, passed down from generation to generation, and had been bestowed upon only the most adept warriors. Most sets were family heirlooms. The frayed cloak indicating his rank of commander that trailed behind him should have been a radiant purple, but it too was covered in mud. His battle sword rested in its magnetic sheath on his back, ready to be whisked out in an instant. The colonel enjoyed no luxuries that his men did not have, and it was this for which they loved and revered him. They would die for him, and this the colonel knew all too well.
“Can I ask you something, sir?” Scotts felt incredibly nervous asking the colonel a question, but he had heard the man was approachable. Besides, he had heard from others and found from experience that you couldn’t get an answer out of the lieutenants. Most of them didn’t last beyond a week of their deployment anyway.
“Within reason,” the colonel replied, somewhat amused.
Scotts cleared his throat. “Is there going to be another push soon?”
The colonel stopped, a thin smile broke across his weary face. “That’s quite a question, trooper. You will know soon enough. Whose platoon are you in trooper?” He eyed Scotts more closely, and a brief hint of recognition flashed in his eye. He made it a point to try to keep tabs on his more experienced troopers. Experience came with surviving, and those who survived usually made good sergeants, something he always needed.
“Sergeant Matthias’ platoon.” Scotts replied.
“I thought so. He told me you are quite resourceful. Stay by his side. He will get you through.” The colonel nodded and headed down the trench, sidestepping sleeping troopers and acknowledging those who were awake. Scotts suddenly felt as if he was infused with some sort of supernatural energy. Suddenly, he was not content to just wait for his time to take an enemy round and die. He wanted to live, to fight, and to serve his colonel as best he could. A wide grin broke across his grimy, mud-caked face as he ran back to his position in the trench line with renewed vitality.
Explosions tore up the muddy ground in front of the trench line, showering the expectant troopers with mud and debris. Occasional napalm rounds detonated in a random manner, briefly scorching the earth and the rare small bits of vegetation that remained before being extinguished quickly by the rain. The fog still had not lifted, and to make matters worse, the steady rainfall was filling some of the shell craters with enough water to drown a trooper who wasn’t careful. Both warring sides had dropped numerous mines and other obstacles, making traversing no-man’s-land a matter more of luck than of anything else.
Low and constant thunder rumbled, following orange and yellow streaks of lightning across the pale sky. Although it was late morning, the twin suns were nowhere to be seen, obscured by the thick cloud cover. The artillery barrage had been going on for a short while, and because of the recent shortage of artillery shells, no one expected it would last for very long. In reality, all that these preliminary barrages did was alert the enemy to an impending attack and prompt retaliation with their own barrage. Assault Sergeant Matthias yelled at the top of his lungs at the gathered troopers, who listened as best they could amid the deafening explosions of shells in front of their trench line.
“The artillery is cutting a path ahead for us through the wire! Follow me into the breach! Once we are through to the other side, we will re-form and concentrate
our attack!” Matthias inserted several shells into his slug thrower, racked the action and press checked his pistol, pushing the slide slightly to the rear to ensure a round was in the breach. Up and down the trench, bolts could be heard slapping rounds into chambers, and a crescendo of whining noises indicated rifles being powered up.
The troopers were as ready as they could be. They nervously rechecked and reloaded ammunition magazines and fixed their bayonets. Scotts grasped his rifle tightly. He suddenly lost count of how many times he had gone over the top as he prayed that this one wouldn’t be his last. He felt the urge to urinate and didn’t resist the temptation, staining the front of his overalls.
Almost as quickly as it had begun, the outgoing artillery bombardment stopped. The enemy’s retaliatory barrage continued for only a few moments longer. The enemy also seemed to be having ammunition shortages also, as their barrages never lasted very long either. A momentary silence ensued, broken only by the cries of the dying and the wounded drifting over from the other side, revealing that some of the shells had hit their targets. The troopers’ ears rang, as they almost always did after such exchanges. Their helmets weren’t built to block out the noise of an artillery barrage.
A whistle blown somewhere down the trench signaled the start of the ground assault. A series of rapid whistles followed, and the near silence was broken.
“Over the top!” Matthias yelled as loudly as he could. He heaved himself over the trench wall first, blowing his whistle in short, rapid blasts. His troopers began screaming “Urrah! Urrah!” at the top of their lungs as they unhesitatingly followed their seemingly immortal sergeant into the abyss.
Scotts yelled as loudly as he could and plunged into the awaiting chaos of no-man’s–land. He aimed and fired, guided by targets that flashed quickly, with their estimated ranges, on the integrated targeting display (ITD) inside his helmet face shield. Ghostly outlines of enemy troopers began to appear at the lip of their trench as the opposition desperately tried to stave off the attack. The ITD gave Scotts the ability to penetrate the fog and engage the enemy at close range. Working in conjunction with his weapon sight, his helmet ITD provided far more targets than he could engage, but he tried his best, going through magazine after magazine, his rifle emitting the telltale green energy waves as rounds exited its muzzle.
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