Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset

by James Hunt

  “Dean, down!”

  The reaction was instantaneous: Dean hit the ground, and he watched the chest of the Russian fill with lead. Dean turned and saw Jason, clouds of frost puffing from his breath, the full light of the fire illuminating him. Jason extended his hand and helped Dean up, the gunshots growing more infrequent. “We’re running out of ammo.”

  “I know,” Jason said, ejecting his magazine and tossing the weapon into the blood- and ash-stained snow. He pointed back behind him. “Rodion split his forces, half of them in the north. We’ve pushed them back, but I’ve seen no sign of the general.”

  Dean and Jason marched on, the fire still roaring strong in the night air. Behind the flames there was nothing but the open tundra of the great north, stretching for miles and miles, offering nothing but cold, death, and darkness.

  The light from the fire behind Dean slowly faded with every step. The man thrives in the cold, and this is where he will die, buried in the ice. Dean stopped, the long fingers of light flickering from the heart of the fire barely able to penetrate the darkness. And that’s where Dean saw him.

  Rodion stood motionless; the only sign of his presence the puff of frost radiating from his lips with each breath. Snow and ash settled on his shoulders, where a rifle strap hung. He clutched a saber in his right hand. All that was visible was his silhouette, but Dean saw no other soldiers around him. “It is a cold night to die, Governors.” Rodion’s thick accent slurred the English words as he stepped forward, sliding the rifle from his shoulder to the ground, concentrating his efforts on the blade in his hands.

  Dean and Jason circled around Rodion, the brothers in sync with every step. The wind howled and the rush of cold burned Dean’s eyes. “It’s over, Rodion. Your men are dead or dying, and you’ve no resources or allies to come and save you.” He and Jason were angled to Rodion’s left and right, the general unwavering in the relentless onslaught of the harsh blizzard.

  “I will never yield.”

  “Good.” Dean sprinted forward, blade in hand, and sliced at Rodion, who dodged the attack, swiveling left, then thrust his own blade, which Dean parried.

  Jason joined the assault, the cold accentuated each smack of steel, and Dean’s bones felt as though they would snap in half with each strike. His fingers grew stiff around the blade’s hilt, but his mind overpowered whatever fatigue and pain his body protested.

  Boots slid across the icy ground, yet Rodion kept his footing better than Dean and Jason, who both nearly collapsed twice trying to cut the Russian down. The snowfall thickened, and the wind picked up, bringing with it the embers and ash from the massive fire. The tiny orange flecks of light danced through the air, swirling around the storm of blades between Rodion, Jason, and Dean, bringing with them a mixture of warmth and cold.

  Dean squinted his eyes, trying to keep both the embers and the snow from blinding him. Rodion’s pace quickened, the Russian general slicing his blade left then right, the back-and-forth diagonal cross challenging Dean’s skill. With Rodion using his right hand to press his attack with the saber, he swung his left fist sporadically, Dean evading the assaults.

  With Dean taking a step back, Rodion used the space to press Jason. The Russian smacked the blade from Jason’s hand, then smashed Jason’s nose with the sword’s hilt, who fell disoriented to the ice, blood gushing from his nose and mouth.

  Dean sprinted to his brother’s aid, blocking the death blow Rodion brought down. Jason scrambled backwards, searching for his sword in the snow while Rodion and Dean locked their steel together. Fire ran up and down Dean’s arms, his feet struggling to keep traction on the ice. Rodion pressed, moving the blades closer to Dean’s face one struggled inch at a time. Dean twisted left, trying to fling the Russian off him, but Rodion held tight, pivoting with Dean effortlessly on the slick ice. Snow and ash collected on both their shoulders, toppling down their arms when the piles grew too large.

  Jason found his blade in the drifts of snow, then rushed to join Dean, and Rodion stepped backward, giving the Russian space as both brothers regrouped. “I’m not sure your brothers put up this much of a fight,” Rodion said, letting a smile crack along his face of ice. “I was told both were killed quickly.”

  Jason thrust forward, taking on the Russian alone. Dean pivoted to the right, trying to get an angle on Rodion himself, but unable to find an opening that wouldn’t hurt his brother. Jason wailed in the night, the clang of his steel matching each pained groan that escaped his lips.

  Rodion exploded forward, skidding Jason backward, then tossing him aside, and Dean replaced his brother seamlessly, offering Rodion no rest. Dean’s fingers froze to the hilt of the blade, the joints along his arm fighting off the stiffening cold.

  Jason rejoined the assault, the three of them pushing deeper into the tundra, the walls of snow and ice raining from above slowly blocking the glow of the fire. Suddenly, with his heels digging into the icy earth, Rodion roared, smashing his forehead into Dean’s skull, the sharp crack of bones sending Dean to the ground and his sword falling from his grip.

  Dean landed hard on the ice, and his head swam back and forth, as if his mind was caught in the rolling waves of an ocean during a storm. He brought his foot underneath him then slipped on the ice, his chin smacking into the hard frozen earth, numbing his jaw.

  Dean squinted into the darkness, the snow so thick he could no longer see more than a few feet in front of him. “Jason!” Blood dripped from the bridge of his nose onto his lips, the wind freezing the fluid before it had a chance to drip to the ground. “Jason!”

  A gurgled shout echoed from behind him, and Dean spun on the ice, turning to witness Rodion on top of his brother, the Russian’s thick hands around Jason’s neck. Dean sprinted into Rodion, knocking the general down, the two tumbling over one another, a flurry of legs and arms.

  The two men swung at each other, exchanging blows, each strike fracturing their frozen bones one hit at a time. Dean’s body went numb from the cold, numb from the punches, numb from the fatigue of war. Jason stumbled, joining the assault on Rodion, all three men void of their swords, relying on their bare hands as the only weapons left to them.

  It took both brothers to keep Rodion pinned to the ice, the Russian’s strength seeping onto the snow with every blow. In a last attempt, Rodion clutched both of their throats, his massive hands squeezing the life from both of them. “I will leave your body here to freeze once you’re dead.” Rodion spit the cold words through gritted teeth, blood speckling his chin, his massive arms and shoulders bulging through his sleeves.

  Dean choked for breath, his mind and body numb, the cold filling his lungs, aiding in Rodion’s suffocation. He fruitlessly beat his hands against the Russian, Jason mimicking the same. Dean could feel the end, here and now, the cold cloak of death finally covering his body.

  “You will not save your people,” Rodion whispered, and Dean felt the heat of his breath. “Death waits for no man or woman”—Rodion smiled—“or child.”

  The words sparked a flame in Dean’s soul. He lunged for Rodion’s face, his fingers catching the general’s beard and he pulled with what strength was left, bringing the Russian’s face to his knee, releasing Dean from the stranglehold upon contact.

  Rodion fell backwards, and Dean rounded on him, pounding his face into the tundra, each blow more vicious than the last, splattering the snow around him with blood. The fire roared within him, ending the cold, ending the battle, ending Rodion’s life.

  It was Jason who pulled Dean from the dead Russian’s body, his voice screaming into the blizzard, the sprays of frost like dragon’s breath from his mouth. He felt Jason’s hands on him, and heard his voice, but all he could think of were Rodion’s final words. Kemena. I left her alone.

  Chapter 11

  Kemena lay awake in the makeshift bed the guards had put together in her husband’s quarters. While she had her own space, she preferred to sleep here, much to the guards’ dislike, since Dean’s tent was centered close to th
e soldiers’ barracks. She noticed that the men shrouded themselves in reserve while she was present, no doubt a sign of respect for both her and their governor.

  A queer sensation radiated from her stomach, spreading throughout the rest of her body. It sent a shiver down her back. The quiet. I’m just not used to the quiet. Ever since Dean’s departure north to track down Rodion, all that was left in the ruins of their capital were a few of her personal guards, the elderly, women, and children. But out of those groups there was no laughter, no smiles or joy at the fact that they were now home. Their lives had changed, and the taste of war had left a bitter sourness on every tongue.

  Kemena saw it in the streets when she walked past people who cast quick, sideways glances. There was resentment in their eyes. They had trusted her husband to keep not just their families safe but also their homes, and all that was left to them now crumbled in their fingertips as they scooped the ash from their plots.

  A breeze rushed through the tent, flapping the canvas lightly, and Kemena shifted to her side, clutching her stomach. She rubbed her belly gently, the swell underneath growing every day. The life inside her offered the resolve to push on. She circled all of her concentration around that idea, that whatever despair or loneliness she felt, none of it mattered so long as she stayed strong for her child. For our child.

  Another breeze blew through the tent, and the winds brought two thuds with it from outside. The noise startled Kemena, jumping from the bed, slowly backtracking to the rear of the tent.

  Dean’s quarters was split into three separate rooms, all with a sheet acting as barriers to provide privacy. The bedroom was in the very rear, and Kemena stopped when she felt the ripple of canvas against her back. She crouched low, her eyes able to make out only shapes in the darkness. She shortened her breaths, and she listened for anything, but only the still quiet of night answered.

  Kemena’s eyes were glued to the bedroom’s entrance. Wind rippled the sheets gently, and with each gust, she felt a sudden jolt that shook her bones. She drew in a breath, holding it tightly. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she finally exhaled, softly. She relaxed, feeling foolish over the fear that had consumed her. She pushed herself up from the ground, the earth lumpy and cold. She reached for the bed, and when she pulled back the sheets, two hands violently covered her mouth and squeezed her throat.

  “Scream, and I thrust this dagger into your belly and kill whatever seed grows there, understand?” the voice whispered in her ear. Calluses and bits of dirt scraped against Kemena’s cheek, and she gave a light nod. “Good.”

  The man’s words sent a hot tickle into Kemena’s ear, and she squirmed and writhed uncomfortably in the foreign arms that held her. Even though she’d agreed to his terms, the man still kept a hand over her mouth, and they slipped out the back of the tent into the night. Her feet stumbled forward, and she did her best to keep pace with the kidnapper’s rapid strides. She found herself glancing at the tents they passed, praying someone, anyone would step outside, but the assassin was skilled in silence, and each time she thought about screaming for help, she was reminded of the man’s threat as she felt the sharp point of steel against her belly.

  They made it all the way to the shoreline, and once they were away from the bulk of the city and the people that could hear her, the man released his hold and shoved her forward. In the darkness, it was difficult to make out his features when she turned to look back at him, but from her first glance, she thought the man was Chinese. “Delun sent you?”

  The man pointed to the rocky edge where a narrow path opened up to guide them down to the shore. “Walk. And keep quiet.”

  Kemena glanced over the ledge, and at the shore below she saw a rowboat beached in the sand, and farther out into the Pacific rested a small shadow, bobbing up and down in the waves, no doubt the kidnapper’s vessel. “You mean to sail me all the way to China? For what? Ransom? If you think my husband will—”

  “Quiet.”

  The man held the dagger to her throat once more, and both of them froze in the night. Dogs barked from the direction of the city, and Kemena felt her heart leap from her chest. “They know I’m gone. You won’t make it out of this alive.”

  The speed with which the kidnapper was on her with the dagger to her stomach was faster than her eyes could process. Her spine stiffened as he applied a light pressure that tore the fabric of her nightgown, the cool ocean breeze slipping into the dagger’s hole. “If I die, so does the child.”

  Kemena looked from the dagger at her stomach to the direction of the dogs barking, growing louder in the distance, which now carried the shouts of men. She took a step back, separating her belly from the dagger’s tip, then made her way down the narrow path, the kidnapper following closely behind. While Kemena complied with the assassin’s demands, she offered no haste on the descent. With any luck, the scouts would spot the ship in the waters and send word to the warship Dean had left in the harbor. Right now that was her only hope.

  ***

  The sight of the warships in the bay filled Delun with a reassurance he hadn’t realized he needed. The fleet he’d loaned to Rodion had finally returned, restoring his armada to the full fighting force he would need should the Mars governors be foolish enough to sail against him.

  And the day continued to be filled with more good news, as his generals informed him that the north port of Brisbane had been retaken from the Australians, giving Delun another foothold in the country in addition to their occupation of Perth in the west. The gains in the Australian outback had been slow but effective. The Aussies were running out of supplies, despite the New Zealand territory offering its support. The blockade of shipments from Brazil had proved to be too much, and it wouldn’t be long before the people of the country wanted food more than their freedom.

  “Emperor.” Fung gave a deep bow as Delun watched his fleet pour into the bay from the Pacific. “I have news from the engineers. They wish to see you immediately.”

  Delun smiled. “Threats and fear can do wonders in motivating the unwilling, can’t they, Ambassador?”

  Fung raised his head, flashing a look of concern. “Have I done anything to dishonor my emperor?” The words shook off of quivering lips, and Fung lowered his head back down, facing the docks.

  Delun rested a hand on Fung’s shoulder and felt the ambassador shudder at his touch. “We will soon see.” He kept a brisk pace to the ship, where the engineers awaited his arrival. All of them remained bowed until he spoke. “Show me.”

  The engineers took to their positions, standing on sides of tarps that covered the massive pieces of tech with which they’d been outfitting six of the ships. Marco took the lead in speaking, the hollowness in his voice matching the dark circles under his eyes. “My emperor, we offer you a weapon worthy of your conquest.” He gave a nod to the others, and they ripped off the sheets, revealing ten missiles.

  Delun walked over to the weaponry, running his hand down the smooth metal of one of the devices, which towered six feet over his head. “And the guidance systems?” He turned back to Marco, the tone in his voice offering no hint of appeasement.

  Marco bowed lightly and gestured toward the ship’s wheelhouse. “Follow me.” The inside of the cabin had been retrofitted with a new control panel with a system far more complex than its predecessor. “We’ve integrated most of the missile features into what existing technologies the vessels already had in place. Radar and communications will lock the target for the missile, and additional vents have been installed in the engine rooms, along with a separate turbine, to provide the system’s power. Your officers have been briefed on the procedures, and all six ships are complete and ready for testing.”

  Delun placed his palm on the cool steel of the control panel; he glided his hand across the smooth surface. “I want the officers in training formations now, and I want you to commandeer something large enough that floats and belongs to the locals. I don’t want to waste any of our own ships in testing.”

&nbs
p; It was less than ten minutes before soldiers had stolen a handful of fishing boats from the shore, a cluster of angry Philippines residents glowering their displeasure, and piloted them into the bay. The light chop offered easy sailing, and the captain of the vessel steered toward the harbor’s exit. “No.” Delun held up his hand, and the captain removed his grip from the wheel. “I want the tests done in the harbor, where the people can see.”

  Marco stepped forward. “Emperor, it would be wise to—”

  “Will the missiles work, or won’t they?” Delun snapped, and Marco stepped back into line, bowing his head. He turned back to the sight in front of him. “Do it. Here. Now.”

  The captain flicked switches, starting the launch sequence. Delun watched the missiles turn and pivot on the deck, adjusting to the coordinates being fed into their guidance systems. He glanced back at Marco; the engineer’s face was as pale as a ghost.

  “Target locked.” The first mate looked to the captain, who gave the nod. “Fire away.” The first mate flicked the switch on the far left, and Delun watched a trail of smoke twist into the sky, clouding the entire deck in white. The missile soared faster than Delun could track it. The entire ship seemed to draw in a collective breath as the system guided the missile to its target, and once the explosion lit up the harbor, sending a rain of splinters from planks and old fishing gear, the breath was released.

  Everyone on deck cheered and roared, but all Delun could hear was the sound of the Mars fleet erupting into flames and ash.

  ***

  Dean marched along the Alaskan coast quickly, his feet tripping over rocks and his ankles buckling from sinking into the snow-like shore. The ships were already being loaded, and Dean hadn’t changed out of the clothes from the night before, with blood and black ash still staining most of his attire. Dark circles formed under his eyes as he fought a weight crushing his shoulders, trying to bury him in the Alaskan tundra.