by James Hunt
“We need to know where the Chinese are headed and how many are coming.” The ride over had found Lance short of breath. He jammed his finger into the chest of a short, skinny man, his long nose just as pointy as the angles of his shoulders. “If you don’t figure it out, we’re going to die.”
“W-we’re going as fast as we can, but frankly we’ve never seen anything like this before. I-I mean we’ve seen pictures in old books, but never the real thing.”
“Lance,” Danny cut in, stepping in front of the rambling engineer before either Lance hit him or the engineer peed himself. “We’re in over our heads. These guys won’t be able to decode what the Chinese are saying, not in the time frame we need them to.”
“So that’s it?” Canice asked, stepping inside. “Why bother even trying to fight? Huh? Why risk everything we have if we’re just going to die!” She flipped a chair over, and it smacked to the floor. She gripped one of the engineers by the collar and pinned him against the wall. “You listen to me, you sniveling shit. I’ve had just about enough of my crew die here trying to help you, so you get on that fucking radio and find out where the Chinese are going and when they’re getting there!”
“Canice, enough!” Once Lance barked his orders, she let the engineer go, and he scurried back to the others, seeking safety in numbers. “The Chinese are out there right now, mounting an offensive to take the city. They know they’ve worn us thin. When they decide to push through, this city will no longer be under Australian control.”
Boots shuffled, and two wheezing soldiers nearly fell over one another when they entered. “Sir,” the shorter officer bellowed, “our lines outside the city”—he heaved in another breath—“the Chinese are attacking.”
The Aussies had built a makeshift wall over the past three days on the west end of the city. It was the only portion of Sydney that wasn’t protected by rocks or water, making it the easiest point of entry. While they had done their best to limit the number of soldiers landing on shore, more and more were traveling farther north and south beyond the range of their cannons, allowing the Chinese to mount their attack in the rear. And once the Chinese army that marched from Perth arrived, and the Chinese from Brisbane made their way south, the battle would turn into a massacre.
Before Danny issued the order to arms, Lance and Canice were out the door and on their mounts. Screams and gunshots thickened the air the farther they rode west. Lance turned the corner down an alleyway sharply, his freshly stitched shoulder grazing the corner as a cannonball burst through the roof of the building on his left, followed by three more on his right, silencing the screams inside. Once out of the alleyway, they had a clear view of the battlefield.
Swarms of Chinese rushed the field, the Australian artillery unit scrambling to push them back with a relentless barrage of lead. But with the number of Chinese, a few slipped through the cracks, and if enough got through, then their line in the sand would break.
Lance spurred his horse, racing toward battle, and the animal accepted the invitation willingly. His stallion edged Canice’s by a nose as they reared up behind the artillery unit. Lance dismounted before it came to a stop, and the beast whinnied from the thunderous cannons.
A host of soldiers waited nervously behind the veil of the cannons, some gripping rifles, others swords, clubs, and whatever weapons they could get their hands on. Some were dressed in military garb, others in common threads. He saw boys with peach fuzz under their chins and men with beards peppered with grey and white. The military had recruited every able body that could fight, and with the vast army heading their way, all of them were needed.
Artillery from the Chinese landed just a few feet from the Aussies’ cannons, spraying up dirt that rained earth over their heads. Everyone ducked low. Canice leaned in close, shouting over the clamor of war. “The moment we send these bakers and farmers out there, they’ll be slaughtered.”
“We don’t have a choice.” Lance ducked once more from a shot that landed even closer than the one before, casting more black earth over their bodies. “If we meet them out there now, we might give the rest of the city enough time to evacuate.”
Canice drew her sword and rallied the men behind her, all of them eager to follow anyone who had confidence in their voice. Lance found the commander and ordered a cease-fire from the artillery. “To arms! To arms!”
The small reserve behind Lance inched forward, and Canice joined his side along with the Australian commander. Lance pointed his sword to the Chinese gathered at the other end of the field. “Those men wish to take everything that is yours! Your home! Your food! Your family! All of it to be pillaged and burned. You are all that stands between them. Whatever god you pray to, let him bear witness now to your last stand. Let him see the culmination of everything that you are. Fight for your family. Your home. This is your country! If they must take it from you, then they will pry it from your clenched, rigid fist as they put you back into the earth from which you came!”
The pensive expressions on the soldiers erupted into a primal, savage scream. Fists pounded chests, and mouths spat curses. The scent of lead and blood circled the air. Before the night was done, the earth would be stained with the dead. “CHARGE!”
Lance pumped his legs, leading the stampede of soldiers. His muscles burned and went rigid as he edged closer to the advancing enemy. One last volley of artillery fire fell from the sky, followed by geysers of earth and men mushrooming from the earth upon impact just before the two forces collided.
Lance pulled his pistol on the run and took aim at the first Chinese soldier within range. One quick squeeze of the trigger and the powder ignited, ejecting the bullet from the muzzle, which sliced through the enemy’s chest, knocking him backwards, where he was trampled by his own men.
With his pistol discharged, Lance holstered it, bringing both hands to the hilt of his sword. The speed and force at which Lance swung nearly hacked the first soldier he came into contact with in half. Lance felt the tug of his blade as it sliced through bone, tendons, and organs. A brief glimpse of the side of his blade came into view, dripping of blood, just before he drove the tip into the stomach of his next victim.
The opposing waves of soldiers collided into each other, tearing one another apart. The deafening orchestra of death filled the night air with the clash of steel and the piercing screams of men. Savagery replaced reason, rage filled the void of courage, every soldier scraping at the very bottom of his soul to stay alive.
Lance sliced his saber across another stomach, spilling the enemy’s guts onto the field. He stumbled through the forest of the dead and dying, his shaky legs barely holding him on his two feet. Each step forward landed the sole of his boot in blood-soaked dirt. Another Chinese soldier flew at him, blood and dirt covering his face like war paint.
Lance parried, deflecting the soldier’s advancements, digging his heels in to force a stand. Sparks flew from each contact until Lance caught the man in the thigh, felling him to his knees. The man looked toward the sky, muttering jargon in his own native tongue until Lance silenced him with a slice of his throat.
“Captain!” Canice pointed the tip of her blade over Lance’s left shoulder, her face bloodied and dirty along with her clothes and hair.
Lance shifted left quickly, nearly breaking his ankles in the process, just before the axe’s blade could dig into his back, and it landed into the earth. Lance brought the tip of his boot across the soldier’s chin, sending him backwards, leaving the axe buried in the earth. The Chinese soldier crashed to the ground, and Lance thrust his saber, burying his own blade into the dirt as the man rolled right to avoid the strike.
The soldier pulled another hatchet from his belt. He circled Lance slowly, keeping low, his back hunched and the weapon passing back and forth between his palms. With the speed of a viper, he lunged forward, slicing nothing but air as he forced Lance to backpedal.
Lance dug his heels into the hard earth, parrying each advance from the soldier’s lightning-fast swi
ngs. Lance needed both hands on the sword’s hilt to bear the force of each blow, which sent vibrations down his arm, tearing the stitches in his shoulder.
The next swing of the hatchet, Lance ducked left then thrust his sword forward, narrowly missing the soldier, who countered with a swing of his own. The two continued their dance, their reaction speed increasing with every swing. They glided seamlessly together, both unyielding their ground. Lance’s pulse raced through his veins, the fatigue of war heavy as his heart pounded at breakneck speeds.
The hatchet grazed Lance’s left shoulder, and he winced, nearly dropping the blade from his hand. He parried back, but the Chinese soldier caught scent of the blood and pressed harder. Another slice of the hatchet scraped Lance’s right leg, and he stumbled to his knee. Lance blocked another death blow while he knelt, trying to get his feet underneath him, then rolled to his right.
But the soldier was relentless, coming at Lance the moment he stood. With his left arm bleeding, Lance feebly used his right to block the vicious blows, the saber tilting downward with each contact. One final swing, and Lance’s blade slipped from his hand, and he collapsed backwards into the mud. The enemy brought the hatchet high above his head to deliver the final strike.
Just before the blade fell, the tip of another blade thrust through the man’s chest, and the hatchet crashed to the earth. Canice pulled her blade out, and the man collapsed. She held out her hand and helped Lance up then returned his sword to him.
Lance panted for breath and clutched his bleeding shoulder, glancing around at the small battles around him, each soldier clawing forward one inch at a time, tooth and nail, doing whatever they could to stay alive. Eyes were gouged, arms were bitten, and throats were squeezed. All of the pulse-pounding adrenaline they drew fuel from burned and propelled them forward.
More Chinese soldiers crept their way onto the battlefield, and Lance looked back to see the first few enemies break past their final reserve of men and into the city. The leak had sprung, and now it was only a matter of time before the city sank.
Canice tugged at Lance’s arm, her voice ragged and cracked. “Captain, we need to get back to the ship.”
Lance shook his head. “It’s too late for that.” They would die on this field, slain with the other hundreds of soldiers. He might be able to get her back to the port authority, along with the rest of his crew, and bargain for their lives to be spared, but in the end, he knew the Chinese would just torture whatever truth they wanted to hear out of them then end the struggle with a red smile.
Alarms rang from horns in the city from the breach, wailing into the night. What Aussies remained on the field slowly retreated back into the city, running to their families, their friends, trying to save what was left of their own lives.
“We’ll fall back to the docks.” Lance joined in the retreat, sprinting toward the water as fast as his tired legs would carry him. Cannons thundered behind them, the Chinese advancing their artillery for a deeper range within the city. Bloody shoulders and arms bumped and crashed into one another as the citizens who’d locked themselves inside their homes suddenly burst from their dwellings and joined the massive retreat away from the steel and lead meant to kill them.
Artillery dropped around mothers clutching their children in flight to the port, and the elderly hobbled forward before being slain or trampled by the enemy or their own people. Alleyways clogged as the city’s inhabitants clustered at the docks. Screams, cries, and prayers all intermixed with the booming cannons that filled the night air.
Lance and Canice made their way to the Sani, the crew already prepared for departure. They could chance breaking through the front lines and engage the Chinese on the water, but he knew they’d be gunned down the moment they broke through the harbor’s entrance.
“Captain!” Canice yelled from the deck, but Lance had already descended into his cabin.
The deck above shuffled with the sound of boots hurrying to depart as Lance thrust aside the desk in his chambers and removed a wooden panel on the wall behind it. A safe revealed itself, and Lance quickly turned the dial back and forth until the pins of the lock clicked into place. He reached inside and grabbed a small pendulum shaped in a smooth, silver sphere at the end of a necklace.
“Lance.” Canice crashed inside his quarters, out of breath, her eyes wild with excitement. “The Aussies’ fleet from Brazil has returned.” A smile curved up the right side of her cheek, and Lance scrambled behind her up the stairs to the deck to see the sight for himself.
And there, just beyond the cluster of Chinese ships, Lance watched the advancing Australian fleet crash into the Chinese, tearing apart the blockade. Lance looked back down at the pendulum still clutched in his fist, the chain dangling from his fingertips. “Load the cannons! Cast the lines! We’re not dead yet.”
Chapter 5
Dean led the caravan, nearly five hundred strong, across the dotted wastelands of what was once the great Midwest of the old union. The flat land stretched for miles, the only variety coming in the form of a few hills protruding from the landscape.
Patches of dead earth intermixed with still-struggling tufts of green doing their best to fight against the poison of the world around them. For decades, men wouldn’t have even attempted to cross these lands, and even today, nearly a half century after the Great War, there were still some places where men could not travel without fear of death.
When Dean had been a boy, he’d watched his mother, one of the only healers in their village, treat a man who’d ventured into one of the burned cities in hopes of finding food and supplies. It wasn’t but a few days later the man became ill. His hair fell out, his skin discolored, and he couldn’t eat or drink. Despite his mother’s best efforts, the man wasted away, screaming in agony in even the last few moments of his life.
Dean never understood the risk that man took until he’d tasted desperation himself. As he grew up, his parents had shielded both him and his brothers from much of the reality of the world, but as he grew older, Dean saw just how broken the world really was. His father and uncles had done their best to assemble an alliance, understanding the strength in numbers, but it wasn’t until Fred and Lance had become men themselves that any real headway began to take shape. And now, with the groundwork laid by nearly two generations, they were so close to being part of a larger world.
They passed the first camps of the clansmen on their left, and Dean recognized the Black Rocks flag outside one of the makeshift huts they’d constructed from earth and mud. Similar structures had been raised, offering a look of pockmarks etched on the landscape. Most of the wasteland clans were nothing more than nomads, scavenging what was left of the Midwest in numbers upwards of twenty thousand. Some clans were larger than others, and all of them had their own individual customs, but they all shared a common distaste for one another.
It wasn’t until hate for Dean and his brothers that the clans attempted any type of alliance. Once the Wasteland Wars were over, the loose peace had been fragile, but most of the old chiefs had died in battle, and the new ones feared to share the same fate as their predecessors.
Chief Irons stepped out of his hut, accompanied by his guard, and gave a nod to Dean as he rode by. Slowly, one by one, the other clan chiefs exited, making their way toward the center of the camp to convene council.
Black Rocks, Scarvers, Boulders, Hill People, Flayers, Molthays, Fulkers—all gathered in one place for the first time since the peace talks nearly a year ago. Every clan had circled around a cleared opening, one that was set up by a representative from each clan, ensuring equal work and equal sets of eyes watching one another to prevent any treachery. Once the space had been cleared, each chief brought with him one member of his council, and the rest remained at the perimeter. Every clan brought the same number of warriors, all of whom remained unarmed when it came time for the meeting. Dean found his seat between Chief Irons and the Molthays’ Chief Kuthos.
Dean glanced around the circle, the hard, weath
ered faces of the chiefs glaring at him. He knew what he was to ask of them was near the realm of impossible, but with the Russians making their way south, he knew he would need all of the help he could get. “I thank all of you for your council. I know how difficult it is to take time away from your matters at home, but I can promise you what I have to say will be worth the journey.”
“I hope it is, Governor.” Chief Fullock of the Scarver Clan leaned forward. His face was carved and tattooed in angular patterns and designs, as was most of their clan. They believed that the discipline and mastery of pain was the only way to truly honor their Burned God. “You cannot summon us whenever you desire. We are not your subjects to command.”
A few of the other chiefs grunted in agreement, and Dean raised his hands. “Chiefs, I can tell you I think nothing less of you than equals, and that’s how I come here, as your equal.” It was a delicate walk of respect and strength needed to navigate the wasteland clans. Pride was one of their many… redeeming qualities.
“The governor has kept his word with every condition put together in the treaty,” Chief Irons said. “We owe him the same respect of what he has to say.”
While there weren’t any nods of agreement, there also weren’t any grunts of disapproval, and in the current climate, Dean took that as a good sign. “Thank you.” The young chief had been integral in helping keep the clans in order. The Black Rocks were by far one of the largest wasteland clans, and their superiority in strength carried much weight. And Irons had a thirst for more than just the patches of dirt his people occupied.
Dean leaned forward, the gaze of every chief upon him. “Our peace was hard fought, and one year ago we chose the fruits of collaboration over war. The rail that would connect my two regions of the southeast and northwest would also bring greater trade to your people. But now, a new war is coming that threatens our growth. And it comes from a far-off land. The Russians have invaded my people’s colonies in the Alaskan north, and they plan to march south to take the rest. Their army will be vast, and they will not stop their march once they reach my borders.”