Battle for the Wastelands

by Matthew W Quinn

  The three had passed through yet another row of tents when Hank stopped and pointed to the left.

  “That your sister?”

  Andrew’s gaze followed his finger. Straw-colored hair flashed as a woman about Sarah’s height vanished between two tents.

  Andrew’s heart leaped into his throat. He turned and ran toward where the woman had gone.

  “Sarah?” he called. “Sarah!”

  He turned between the tents. He looked right. She wasn’t there. He looked left. The woman’s hair flashed again as she passed between another set of tents.

  Andrew kept running. He was so focused on the woman he didn’t notice the tent peg in his path until he was nearly on top of it. His foot caught. He pitched forward, slamming into the dry ground. Through the dust, he saw the woman turn his way.

  It wasn’t Sarah. She had the same hair, but her eyes were brown, her nose was bigger, and her face rounder. She rushed over and knelt by Andrew, setting aside the basket she’d been carrying. “Are you all right?”

  Andrew nodded, pulling himself onto his knees. “Just fine,” he muttered. “Thanks.” Both rose to their feet. Andrew looked at her for a long moment. She might not be Sarah, but maybe she knew something. “Have you met a Sarah Sutter, from Carroll Town?” The woman shook her head. “She would have arrived here a few days ago. She looks a lot like me; she’s my sister.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t.”

  “All right. If you meet her, tell her Andrew Sutter, her brother, is alive. He’s in the Second Pendleton. If you meet a girl named Cassie Wells, tell her the same thing.”

  “I will.” She briefly touched him on the shoulder, then disappeared among the tents. Andrew sighed. He’d thought he’d found Sarah!

  Someone laid a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Sorry,” Hank said. “There’re a lot of women around here. If we keep looking long enough, I’m sure we’ll find her.” He fell silent.

  Andrew wondered if he should ask what was gnawing on Hank. Then he wondered if this was something he wanted to know. “Thanks.” What else was there to say?

  “Yeah,” David added abruptly. “There’re a lot of girls here. Chances are we’ll find her.”

  That night, Andrew lay staring at the ceiling of the tent he now shared with the rest of the squad. Every time he closed his eyes, images from the day Carroll Town died poured into his mind. Bullets tore away most of Elijah’s head. Hot blood stung Andrew’s skin. Elijah’s death was his fault — he hadn’t been able to shoot the Flesh-Eater!

  And the Flesh-Eaters only attacked because Andrew didn’t shoot the emissary’s guard. If all three Flesh-Eaters had been killed, the townsfolk could have hidden the bodies. The Flesh-Eater army wouldn’t have come.

  He shouldn’t have survived. Sam or Eudora didn’t screw up like he had. He should have died in Carroll Town. They should have his place in the Merrill army. They wouldn’t hesitate when the time came for killing. Ma should have survived. Maybe she couldn’t be a soldier but she could make life easier for those who were.

  Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. He clenched his jaw to stop from sobbing. He looked about the tent. The others didn’t seem to have any trouble sleeping.

  Andrew relaxed slightly. After all, if they were asleep, they weren’t watching him.

  Relaxing allowed the first sob to escape. His face burned. He tensed. He looked left to right, allowing more tears to pour down his face. He hadn’t woken anyone. He sighed in relief, but that only unleashed another sob. His face grew even hotter. He looked around again, but none of his tentmates moved.

  Andrew wiped the remaining tears away from his eyes and shook his head. Weeping was for women. Men did not cry. They fought.

  But the men of Carroll Town fought. And for the most part, they died. Tears began gathering in his eyes again. Andrew blinked them back. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t.

  Despite his best efforts, the tears came and would not stop. Andrew bit his lip and barely kept himself from sobbing.

  His efforts weren’t successful. Another sob burst out. Andrew looked around again. Hopefully the others weren’t awake.

  His gaze fell on Hank. Although his eyes were closed and he didn’t move, his breathing wasn’t regular like the others. He was too quiet, like Andrew himself had been when he was trying to make his parents reckon he was asleep so they’d go to bed and he could sneak out. He was shamming!

  Andrew reddened. If Will knew he was crying, he’d never let him forget. Better not let anyone see him cry at all.

  He lay back down and counted the threads on the ceiling. Surely something that boring would put him to sleep.

  Andrew didn’t know how long he lay there. Nothing moved in the darkness beyond the tent for what could have been minutes or hours.

  The tent flap opened. Zeke poked his head in. “Go to sleep,” he ordered. “We’ll be up in a few hours and it’ll be more of the same unless there’s a fight.”

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  Andrew closed his eyes. When the blood and horror returned, he thought about something else. The times he’d played pool with Sam. The time he’d poked Cassie in the barn before the Flesh-Eaters came.

  Andrew grit his teeth. The Flesh-Eaters destroyed everything he’d known. He would make them pay.

  He started thinking of all the ways he could punish the Flesh-Eaters. Bullets worked. So did the bayonet he’d trained with that day.

  Sleep came much faster.

  Ambush

  Andrew knelt in the line alongside David beneath the glaring sun. He looked down at hot dirt at the base of the hill, eyes averted from the blazing sun. Despite himself, his hands trembled around his rifle.

  A Flesh-Eater company marched on the other side. Their gruesome song about the taste of fallen Merrill soldiers eaten during the siege of Jacinto overpowered the tramp of their boots.

  His stomach lurched, but it wasn’t because of the disgusting lyrics. Soon he’d face the thunder of the massed rifles, the whistling of the mortar shells. And then there were the fanatics who feared neither and lived to kill.

  He closed his eyes. His meager breakfast rose into his throat. He forced it back down with a hard swallow.

  The cavalry moving ahead of the company were supposed to have picked off Flesh-Eater scouts and outriders during the long ride down from the high plains. Hopefully the enemy didn’t know about the hundred Merrill soldiers. Ambush the column, loot the supply wagons. That’d ball up the Flesh-Eaters’ walling off the Merrill army and secure supplies food to boot.

  Hopefully.

  “Don’t worry,” Zeke whispered beside Andrew. “It’s worse waiting. You’ll soon be too busy trying to kill the other son of a bitch to worry.” He paused. “Besides, these aren’t the Obsidian Guard or the goddamn Blood Alchemy monsters.” The sergeant’s words were not exactly reassuring, but Andrew nodded anyway. He clutched his rifle tighter. Zeke pushed a flask in Andrew’s direction. “Drink this. Liquid courage.”

  Andrew seized the flask. He unscrewed the top and took a mouthful. The harsh corn liquor burned. He’d drunk it before, but never this strong. He gagged. Some trickled from the corners of his mouth.

  “Not so much,” Zeke chided. “We don’t want you dried out.”

  Andrew nodded. Tears rolled down his cheeks as it burned down his throat into his stomach.

  Zeke retrieved his flask and took a swig himself. Then he passed it to David before rejoining the other sergeants and officers at the bottom of the hill.

  Andrew turned to David. The other man had the flask to his lips and pulled down a lot more than Andrew.

  “You drinking all that?” Andrew whispered.

  David lowered the flask.“Heard a phrase once. ‘Fighting drunk.’ I reckon I’ll get that way.”

  “I reckon I will too,” Will hissed from beyond David. “And that’s not happening if you drink it all.” He snatched the flask from David and took a quick swig before handing it to Owen. “And be q
uiet!” He gestured in the direction of the marching Flesh-Eaters.

  “We’re moving,” Zeke interrupted. Andrew hadn’t seen him come back. “The bastards are in our laps.”

  Andrew’s hand sank to the cartridge box on his belt the quartermaster had given him. Fourteen rounds. Even with his rifle fully loaded, that didn’t seem like a lot.

  All down the line, the men crept up the hill. The troopers stretched out beyond Andrew’s sight, a river of rifles and bayonets that would shred the Flesh-Eater column marching beyond the hill.

  Hopefully.

  The men stopped below where the Flesh-Eaters would see them. For a long moment, no one moved. No one spoke.

  Then Zeke made a chopping motion with his hand.

  Andrew leaped forward along with the rest of the squad and opened fire. The roaring rifles split his ears. An officer toppled from his horse, as did a black-clad man Andrew had learned was one of the “deacons.” Enemies fell all along the column. Andrew’s fear blew away. He laughed. It looked like they’d taken out a fifth of the bastards at once! There was no way they could lose now!

  The Flesh-Eaters turned toward the Merrill troopers as a body and returned fire, the new thunder drowning out the echoes of the old. Andrew looked around, but nobody seemed hurt. The Merrill fire slackened.

  “Stop looking around and keep goddamn firing!” Zeke roared, barely audible over the ringing in Andrew’s ears. “They’re not stopping!”

  More bullets flew in the Merrill troopers’ direction. The soldiers around Andrew stayed low. None got hit.

  Andrew laughed. At this rate, the enemy would be wiped out long before the Merrills. If the Merrill troops were this skilled, how did the Flesh-Eaters lick them in the first place?

  Then came the first explosion. Andrew’s hands trembled anew. Another shell slammed into the Merrill line far too close. The explosion threw men into the air, their bodies mangled by shrapnel. Harsh sulfur burned in Andrew’s nostrils. Curses and cries of dismay erupted.

  Another round hit to Andrew’s right. The soldiers not pulped lay moaning, bodies dotted with gray shrapnel and limbs twisted by the explosion. Another shell landed to the left, producing the same chorus of pain. The air stank of blood and shit. Andrew’s gorge rose. This wasn’t the bombardment of Carroll Town that wrecked more buildings than it hurt people. He looked around frantically. If they stayed there, they were dead. They had to run.

  A man rose from the Merrill line. The other fellow had barely gotten to his feet when a bullet caught him in the back. He slammed face first onto the ground.

  Andrew looked back and forth. Running would kill them and staying would kill them. They were doomed…

  “We close with them, they can’t use their mortars!” Zeke screamed. “Follow me! Others will cover you!” He pulled something from his coat, lit it with a match, and threw it down the hill. It spewed smoke upon hitting the ground. Beyond Zeke, more smoke bloomed on the hillside. Zeke strode toward the enemy. Owen, Hank, and Will followed. Andrew swallowed and joined them, keeping low and hoping a shell wouldn’t land on him.

  The harsh smoke filled Andrew’s nostrils as the squad passed through it. The cloud thinned further down. Gunpowder’s acrid stink replaced it. He tried breathing through his mouth, but the air tasted like matchsticks. An occasional bullet cracked past, but the Merrill troopers above kept the enemy below occupied.

  For the moment. Mortar rounds fell behind the advancing squad. Clods of dirt pelted his back. Something hot nipped his shoulder. He bit his lip to keep from shouting. All around, men shouted and rifles cracked as the troopers advanced down the hill, covering each other when the smoke wasn’t too thick.

  Gaps opened among the Flesh-Eaters. Andrew’s heart sank. He’d seen this before.

  A wave of fanatics erupted. “Kill!” they screamed over the storm of flying lead. “Kill for the Howling God!”

  Before he could imagine all the ways the fanatics could do that, Zeke’s roar cut through the thunder of the gunfire and the fanatics’ mad howling.

  “Mow the bastards down!”

  Andrew’s rifle kicked against his shoulder again and again. One shot hit a fanatic in the chest and put him on the ground. Another caught a fanatic in the eye and tore away most of his head. A third struck a fanatic in the shoulder and dropped him.

  Although the gunfire swept the oncoming fanatics down like a reaper cutting wheat, the enemy was too close and too quick. The screaming tide slammed into the advancing Merrills. The collision sounded of blades punching into flesh and bodies slamming into the unyielding earth.

  Andrew shot a fanatic in the face but couldn’t fire again before another one was upon him. A saber flashed in the glaring sun, the curving blade reaching for Andrew’s throat.

  Andrew shoved his bayonet forward, catching the Flesh-Eater in the thigh. Blood spurted like a spring. The fanatic screamed and swung again, straight at Andrew’s left hand. Andrew recoiled, tearing the bayonet out of the enemy. Blood gushed, but the Flesh-Eater’s movements did not slow. The saber slammed into the side of the rifle, carving out a chunk of the wood and knocking the weapon aside. The fanatic slammed his head forward. Andrew instinctively looked away and the man’s forehead struck him above the eye. Andrew saw black.

  “Kill!” the fanatic screamed. “Ki —”

  The man’s cry became a gurgle. He fell away, blood streaming from his mouth and from a huge wound in the left side of his chest.

  Andrew looked left. Owen turned away, aiming his rifle elsewhere. The man whose looks vexed Andrew had just saved his life.

  A gunshot echoed loud enough to hear over the din. Andrew’s gaze snapped right. A fanatic turned away from the collapsing body of another Merrill soldier, his grin revealing his filed teeth. His pistol rose —

  Andrew fired. The bullet sent the fanatic sprawling. The shot that would have split Andrew’s face instead went up into the air. There were no Flesh-Eaters nearby. Andrew took the opportunity to reload.

  A bullet snapped by his head. Andrew threw himself down. No fanatic came. Andrew aimed at a Flesh-Eater further back. He missed. Andrew fired again and checked the ammunition tube. Four rounds left.

  “How much do you have?” he screamed at Owen.

  The other man shook his head. “Not much! Let’s hope the sons of bitches don’t have more than we do!”

  In a pig’s eye. Andrew fired twice, but he wasn’t sure he hit anything.

  The ground shook. The Flesh-Eaters began bunching together. Andrew fired, catching a running Flesh-Eater in the thigh. The Flesh-Eaters formed into a square, bayonets facing out.

  Onto the scene swept the Merrill cavalry. Their sabers tore into enemy infantry and clashed with those of the few mounted Flesh-Eaters left. Rival horsemen collided with a crunch of flesh and bone audible over the gunfire. The screams of horses and men merged in a cacophony stabbing at Andrew’s mind like a multitude of knives.

  Andrew thumbed more rounds into the rifle. The squares would keep the horsemen at bay but would also serve as nice compact targets. He fired twice into the enemy formation, felling at least one Flesh-Eater.

  A mortar shell erupted within the square and raced over his head. Another crashed somewhere to his left. The different squares were supporting each other!

  Some Flesh-Eaters on the left had somehow gotten separated from the square. A pack of horsemen tore through them, then wheeled back through the survivors. The Flesh-Eaters remaining in the square fired. Their volley blew three horsemen down. The cavalry retreated, shooting as they moved.

  The front ranks of the square were thin now. Beyond them, Flesh-Eaters loaded a pair of mortars. Andrew fired until his rifle clicked empty. “I don’t have any left!” he shouted. “Anyone got more?”

  “Who’s out of ammo?” Zeke demanded.

  Besides Andrew, David had exhausted his ammunition and Hank only had one bullet left.

  “We need to take that fucking mortar out!” Zeke screamed. “The three of you, bayonets! T
he rest will cover you!” Zeke pointed. Andrew’s gaze followed the sergeant’s finger to the weak spot in the front of the square. “Forward!”

  Uncaring of the bullets, Andrew ran. A Flesh-Eater screamed orders. Enemies filled the gap. Bullets whizzed by. Someone screamed as the bullets caught him. A Flesh-Eater pointed his rifle at Andrew but ate a bullet before he could fire. Another Flesh-Eater had his rifle up, but Andrew sank the blade into his gut. The man’s chest and head snapped forward and he screamed, spattering Andrew with blood.

  Andrew tried to tear the rifle free. Something snagged the bayonet hilt. The Flesh-Eater’s writhing nearly tore the rifle away. Andrew’s hands tightened on the weapon. The man dragged him forward.

  A Flesh-Eater about Andrew’s height appeared beside him. He drove his bayonet straight at Andrew’s side. With fear-fueled strength, Andrew threw himself forward, knocking himself and his mortally-wounded foe to the ground and tearing his rifle free. The Flesh-Eater swept through where Andrew had been and caught a bullet in the head a second later.

  Soaked in the dying man’s blood, Andrew rose in time to see a Flesh-Eater aim at David. He lunged, ready to shove his bayonet through the man’s throat. The Flesh-Eater wheeled on Andrew and fired. He missed. A bullet caught the Flesh-Eater before Andrew could spit him.

  That left a clear path for the mortars. There were only two crew left standing, but one had a shell in his hands. Andrew leveled his bayonet and screamed. He’d rip the man open before he could murder any more Merrills! The Flesh-Eater hurled the shell at Andrew. He barely felt the blow as he plowed into the man, burying the blade in his gut. Ignoring the man’s screams, he tore the blade free.

  The other Flesh-Eater lunged, a long knife flashing. Andrew shoved his rifle into the man’s chest. The blade that would have buried itself in Andrew’s flesh instead tore through his shirt and drew little blood. Before the man could recover, a bullet caught him in the side.

  Will and Owen rushed forward, Zeke on their heels. Zeke pointed through the clouds of smoke and rushing men toward the nearest Flesh-Eater square. “Simmons, Gollmar, the mortar! Smash the bastards!”