Battle for the Wastelands

by Matthew W Quinn

  “Pull the pin and wait a second,” Zeke ordered. Andrew nodded. He didn’t want the grenade thrown back. He obeyed, waiting a moment, then threw. “Down!”

  They all ducked. An explosion cracked beyond the corner. Someone screamed. A hot wind carrying splinters roared down. Someone snarled in pain and anger.

  “FORWARD!” Zeke roared. The squad rounded the corner. Blood pooled on the wooden stairs. A mangled guardsman lay beside a hole in the tower’s side. Enough of him remained that Andrew could see he had amber skin and dark hair like Eric Tan from Carroll Town.

  “Good job,” Zeke said. “That was one of the Obsidian Guard.”

  Will laughed. “One of them? Grendel’s personal troops?” He looked at the body. “That wasn’t that hard.”

  Zeke clenched his teeth and locked eyes with the redhead. “He was one against seven and we’re damn lucky he didn’t wax us with that grenade. I’ve fought the Flesh-Eaters, the Blood Alchemy monsters, and the Obsidian Guard. The Guard’s the most dangerous.” He paused. “They’re probably guarding the dirigible. There’ll be more.” Zeke turned to the corpse. “Good thing that repeater’s still intact. We’ll need it.”

  An Unpleasant Surprise…

  The trooper Alonzo had sent in under a white truce flag trudged across the dry earth back from the excavation site. As the ranks of the assembled Merrill troops parted to allow him through, Alonzo frowned.

  When the Merrills had arrived, the site was alert. The four towers armed with Sawyers were manned. The buildings clustered behind and between the two front towers — probably worker housing and barracks — had riflemen lining their roofs. The soldiers left at the fort hadn’t successfully whispered sweet nothings into the cannibals’ ears.

  For a moment, he’d considered calling it off. A frontal assault against the towers would be a bloodbath, even if they won. Hundreds of good men would die. They wouldn’t have the numbers to take back the loot they’d paid in blood for, even with the handcarts sitting on the new rail line spilling like a tongue from the excavation site.

  Instead, he’d sent one of his smoothest-talking troopers to palaver with the enemy. Hopefully his artillery — he’d stripped the refuges of most of it — and his possession of an enemy colonel as a hostage would cow the Flesh-Eaters. As the man passed through the first rank of soldiers, Alonzo could see the dejection on his face. Fuck.

  “Sir, they’re not interested. Their commander says beat feet before they put us on the grill.”

  Alonzo gestured to the captive colonel mounted beside him. The man’s feet were lashed to the stirrups and his hands tied around the horn of the saddle. He’d been gagged lest he warn his comrades. “What about him?”

  “They said those who die for the Howling God will be served in the afterlife by those they killed. He should be glad.”

  Alonzo looked at the colonel, whose face was transfixed by anger. “See how little you’re worth to them? Best pray to that devil you call a god you survive riding beside me.” He ordered the soldier back to his unit and turned to Hutton. His heart hung heavy in his chest. A lot of good men were going to die soon. But if he left those weapons in enemy hands, those men and more were dead anyway. “Begin the attack.”

  Hutton disappeared into the ranks of troopers drawn up behind them. Alonzo returned his attention to the excavation site. Was this dragon’s hoard something Father could have found?

  Alonzo had sent his personal troops to comb the desert for Old World artifacts and used the monies he controlled as the Merrill’s second son to buy relics from the pikeys, but that was peanuts. If John had some Old World artillery at Bluebell Creek, he could’ve torn the Blood Alchemy Host a new one as they rested and watered their troops. And if Father had more Old World antiaircraft guns at Fairmont, he could’ve brought the dirigibles down on Grendel’s head…

  Orders rippled through the first line of soldiers. It wouldn’t be long before he gave the excavation site a taste of his artillery.

  CRASH-CRASH! The two howitzers thundered behind Alonzo, the shots throwing the wheeled guns back. CRASH-CRASH! Galloper guns shouted in the gaps between the infantry squares, shells flying horizontally into the teeth of the enemy defenses. The first Flesh-Eater dead hadn’t even hit the ground before the howitzer shells landed, smashing the top half of one of the towers to splinters. Wood and metal flew. Men screamed. The smoke and screams grew worse when the second rank joined in, their mortars savaging the low-slung buildings and the remaining tower.

  It was almost like music, the storm of fire and steel. Lots of cannibal bastards were heading to boot hill today. More would die later at the hands of Merrill troopers armed with Old World weapons…

  A cloud of dust and fire bloomed in the open space before the excavation site. Alonzo’s gut clenched. He figured the Flesh-Eaters would have mortars, but the explosion was too big. Howitzers. He hadn’t planned on ordering the advance until both towers fell, but enemy artillery left him no choice.

  The first rank surged forward. Hutton must’ve had the same idea. Their only hope would be to get ahead of the falling shells.

  That hope failed. Two shells landed just behind the oncoming soldiers. The explosions tore into the center of the line. Men screamed. Dirt and body parts fountained. Through the clouds of dust, Alonzo saw a vast and bloody hole open in the ranks. He closed his eyes.

  No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.

  New orders echoed through the second rank around him. The soldiers scattered, their mortars easier to maneuver than the howitzers the third rank manned and protected. Mortars popped. Alonzo prayed they’d get the Sawyer gun atop the towers before the troopers entered their line of fire. The rotating guns chattered. Fuck.

  Many in the first rank fell, but some got below the enemy guns. The surviving Flesh-Eater sharpshooters sent more bodies sprawling, but now the Merrills were close enough to shoot back.

  More explosions sent clouds of dirt and flesh flying. The howitzer shells continued marching toward the Merrills’ big guns. Alonzo swore. If the third rank didn’t get their asses moving, the Flesh-Eater counter-battery fire would rip them apart. The sweat-slick horses were already dragging the galloper guns out of the smoke. The howitzers and the four-barreled Old World antiaircraft gun were taking longer. Too much longer.

  A two-toned whistle filled the air. Two fireballs roared over the howitzers. A wave of heat slammed into Alonzo. His horse stumbled. Men and animals screamed. Blood and metal flew.

  “Goddamn it!” Alonzo roared. The vanishing fireball revealed one howitzer mangled beyond repair. The gun’s massive barrel was torn free of the wheeled carriage and lay broken on the ground. The crews’ torn bodies lay draped over the wheels and the barrel or strewn about. Blood sizzled on the hot metal.

  The other howitzer and the antiaircraft gun were barely clear of the blast. The rearmost soldier attending the howitzer lay on the ground, a huge piece of shrapnel sticking out of his head.

  The soldiers erected the remaining howitzer once more. Shouted orders echoed through the second rank. Though the Flesh-Eaters in the tower still cranked their Sawyer gun, the dust and smoke promised a less bloody advance. The men moved forward in stages, some hanging back to continue firing the mortars. Alonzo watched them rush over the mangled remains of the troopers in the first wave killed by the howitzer. These men would do better.

  As the troopers disappeared into the whirling smoke and dust, the howitzer lobbed a shell over the fort’s walls. No Flesh-Eater guns replied. Maybe they’d destroyed them, or the enemy had run out of ammunition? The howitzer fired two more times, explosions leaping upward behind the walls. Once the troopers got through the gates, they’d have a much easier advance. But the Sawyer in the tower continued firing. Men screamed, bodies piling in the open ground in front of the gates. Where the fuck were the mortars?

  Twin fireballs bloomed atop the tower, answering his question. The damnable Sawyer finally fell silent. Alonzo grinned. He turned to the captive Flesh-
Eater. “Enjoying yourself?” The Flesh-Eater turned purple. Alonzo laughed.

  Alonzo returned to his attention to the battle. The crackle of rifles pushed through the ringing in his ears. Through gaps in the smoke, he saw the remains of the first rank and most of the second pour into the excavation site. The Merrill artillery slowed. Between limited ammo and the risk to the footsloggers, they’d be done soon.

  He gave his horse a squeeze, sending it trotting forward. He’d never ask any of his soldiers to take risks he wouldn’t take himself. His personal guard followed, pushing the captive Flesh-Eater along with them.

  Thunder cracked behind him as his horse trotted forward. The shell whistled down seconds later, raising more smoke and debris. He frowned. That shell had landed a little too close to where he expected his troopers to be. If there’d been any fratricide, he’d have Hutton give the artillerymen a few stripes to remember them by.

  By the time he reached the smoke-shrouded buildings, the fighting had moved forward. Alonzo led the horsemen along a dusty path deeper into the Flesh-Eater base. Everyone had their repeaters up, guiding their horses with only their feet.

  They soon found a trooper barely old enough to shave limping toward them from between another set of buildings. Blood seeped from bandages on his arms and forehead. One arm hung limply. The man saluted as soon as his gaze took in Alonzo, his movement as crisp as any seen on the parade ground. Alonzo returned his salute.

  “At ease. What is your unit, and how is the battle going?”

  “Fifth Jacinto, sir. Don’t know what’s going on the right, sir, but we were advancing on the barracks on the left.” The trooper paused. “Slow going. Bastards had barricades with a Sawyer on top, but the mortar boys took it out, sir. Once that was gone, we advanced...” He voice trailed away.

  Something was wrong. “What is it?”

  The soldier looked up, eyes wide. “Two more goddamn Sawyers on the roof! We rushed the barracks, but they opened up on us. We pulled back but left most of us behind.”

  “No more mortars?”

  “Out of shells.” He gestured to his useless arm. “They sent me to find more.”

  Alonzo nodded. Hopefully the officer overseeing the attack on the barracks had the good sense to hold a perimeter and wait for artillery.

  Men shouted from where the wounded man had come. He looked back. “The Flesh-Eaters are coming, sir!”

  Two bodyguards surged past the wounded man. They fired at something Alonzo couldn’t see. Alonzo squeezed the horse with his legs. His mount carried him to just behind his followers.

  Several Merrill soldiers rushed toward them, not bothering to shoot and scoot. More – and better disciplined — Flesh-Eaters pursued. The guards’ repeater fire slowed them, but not by much. Wheels turned in Alonzo’s head. The breakout from the barracks had to be contained, lest they get around the troopers on the right.

  He turned to the wounded soldier. “Go find the mortars!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Alonzo turned to the guards who’d remained behind. “To me! We’ll hold the goddamn cannibals here!” He shouldered his own repeater as his remaining bodyguards crowded forward. The mounted men sealed the gap. Before the Flesh-Eaters could react, Alonzo and his bodyguards added their fire to the first two. Flesh-Eaters fell. The fleeing Merrills stopped as though they were hitting a brick wall. One gasped, dark eyes wide in a narrow face. His lips moved. Alonzo couldn’t hear him over the noise of the battle, but he recognized the words “the Merrill.”

  The retreating soldiers turned. Some threw themselves onto the dusty ground, while others rushed back the way they’d come. The Flesh-Eaters pulled back, shooting and scooting. Beyond a log barricade that must’ve been part of the Merrill perimeter lay the brick barracks. Flesh-Eaters moved like ants on top.

  Alonzo’s ears caught a lethal whistling sound. His throat clenched. “Forward!” The horsemen and the infantry they’d saved advanced. The Flesh-Eaters opened fire, their bullets toppling footsloggers and throwing a rider from his saddle. Alonzo and his guards’ repeaters replied. The enemy died or cowered behind their barricade.

  The ground shook as a mortar shell exploded behind them. Even through his duster, Alonzo felt the heat. The horses whined in fear and pain. They wouldn’t advance farther with the Sawyers intact and staying made them a target for mortars.

  “Fall back!” Alonzo ordered.

  As Alonzo’s group retreated, the Flesh-Eaters rose from behind the barricade. Alonzo swore. Clark and the officers had to be insane, but he’d hoped the conscripts cared more about their own skins.

  Another whistle filled the air. Alonzo clenched his legs around his horse. They were still in the open, still vulnerable...

  The barricade exploded, wood and dead men flying. Alonzo grinned. The wounded man must’ve found his mortars after all.

  More whistling. Another shell landed beyond the first. The third shell exploded in front of the barracks, shrapnel gouging its crimson brick flesh.

  Alonzo looked behind him. More Merrills emerged from the smoke. If the mortar had neutralized the Sawyer, the Flesh-Eaters left behind were doomed.

  “The Merrill!” the troopers shouted as they saw him.

  “Don’t just stand there!” Alonzo shouted. “Go into that barracks and drag them out!”

  The men rushed around Alonzo and his guards. A second later, another mortar shell exploded, this one atop the barracks. No more trouble from the Sawyers.

  Now he had to find the Old World arsenal. The maps at Fort Cochrane showed the barracks west of the excavation. “Come on!” he shouted to his guards. By the time they came to the edges of the vast hole torn in the brown earth, gunfire sounded in the pit itself.

  Alonzo’s gut clenched. The Flesh-Eaters had to know the game was up. He whistled at a nearby captain. “Get General Hutton.” If the Flesh-Eaters were killing prisoners, he’d show them no quarter.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain soon returned with Hutton. Ash and blood smeared the general’s face, but he didn’t seem hurt. “We’re on the edges of the pit in places, sir,” Hutton said. “Pushing down onto the ramp.”

  The news brought a momentary smile to Alonzo’s face. They’d have their hands on the enemy’s treasure soon enough. But the crackling rifles reminded him that something darker than honest battle was happening.

  “They killing laborers down there?” Alonzo asked, voice hard.

  “I don’t know, sir. Knowing them, probably.”

  Alonzo gave his merciless order, ignoring the captive colonel’s protest. Hutton nodded and relayed it to the captain. The officer vanished into line of men heading toward what Alonzo guessed was the ramp. The gunfire continued.

  Alonzo looked to his guard. “They may need our repeaters.” He pointed to the captive Flesh-Eater. “One of you stay here with him.”

  By the time Alonzo, his guards, and Hutton arrived at the ramp, the gunfire had stopped. Troopers spread out below. What lay within the pit took his breath away.

  Two cylindrical metal hulks, their gray steel streaked with rust, lay exposed to the air. Something had broken their backs long ago. The front ends were rounded nubs, their broken windows like a cluster of eyes. Long wings, each bearing two massive propeller-tipped engines, lay in the dust beside them.

  He’d heard stories of the days before the Old World had ended in blood and fire, how men had flown without the aid of hot air or hydrogen. Based on the huge rear doors opening up beneath vertical and horizontal fins, Alonzo guessed these were transports that could carry the load of a hundred dirigibles.

  Merrill soldiers surrounded the two fallen titans, disarming the few Flesh-Eaters that had surrendered and seeing to dozens of men in ragged clothing. Only one civilian, a man with a pistol in his clockwork hand, lay dead beside the corpse of a Flesh-Eater. Alonzo brought his fingers to his hat in a momentary salute.

  A little too soon for your own good, but at least you brought one down with you.

 
; He rode down into the pit. It wasn’t far from the ramp to the fallen flyers. Up close, they were even bigger, their open rear doorways revealing cavernous interiors. One was still half-full of crates the documents said brimmed with repeaters. He counted the crates and whistled. There were enough guns here for several regiments — real regiments, not gutted companies mixed together. They could win with this many weapons, not just prolong their defeat.

  The other aircraft was mostly empty, its interior illuminated only by shafts of light from the open door of what must be its cockpit. A huge wheeled vehicle topped by two Old World missiles and another four-barreled antiaircraft gun squatted inside. How many horses would it take to drag them up the ramp and onto a train car?

  Alonzo pointed toward the aircraft containing the crates. “Get everything out of the pit and onto handcarts. Start rolling them toward Fort Cochrane.”

  Dealing with the missile launcher would take time, but looting the repeaters and grenade launchers was simply a matter of having enough strong backs.

  “Yes, sir!” There was real joy in the soldiers’ voices. A chain of men began passing the crates up the ramp. The rescued civilians were especially enthusiastic. Bayonets made sure the surviving Flesh-Eaters didn’t shirk.

  Alonzo took the moment to wind his clockwork fingers. The longer it took to loot the site, the more likely they’d have to deal with Flesh-Eater reinforcements. It wouldn’t do for one hand to stop working right then.

  He returned his attention to the missile launcher. If stripping the other aircraft of its cargo took too long, they might simply have to dynamite it.

  Alonzo had counted a hundred crates ferried up the ramp when shouts of fear from above stabbed his ears. Men stood on the lip of the pit, pointing north. One word was clear amid the different conversations at the edge of Alonzo’s hearing.