Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset

by James Hunt

  ***

  The Philippine port bustled with activity, soldiers and sailors rushing to and from the docks, the boom of cannons thundering in the early-morning dawn. Kemena had woken from her sleep at the first sound of the cannonade. When the guards saw her peeking through the front, they escorted her forcefully back inside, and this time they stayed with her. But each booming thunder of the cannons only caused her boldness to grow. “That sound? Those screams? My husband is coming. And there won’t be enough of you to stop him from getting to me.”

  “That’s where I think you’re wrong, Governess.” Delun walked into the tent briskly, a flank of guards following him inside.

  “You won’t be able to use me to get to him.”

  “Oh, I think I will.”

  ***

  Dean left a portion of the fleet to continue the bombardment of the blockade surrounding the port while the rest of the forces made landfall just south of the harbor. They took heavy fire, even with the ships providing cover with the cannons. Bullets zipped past him, but Dean pressed toward the shoreline, firing into the Chinese ducked behind their palm trees and bushes. Both Dean and Jason plunged into the waters, and their boots sank into the soft sediment as the rest of the crew pulled the boat ashore.

  Two Chinese sprinted to the shoreline, and Dean shot them down, their bodies lying tangled and bloodied in the sand. The heat from the jungle blasted Dean’s face, and his body broke out in a sweat that shimmered off his skin in the sunlight. Leaves and bushes scraped his arms and legs as he moved closer to Delun’s camp, gunfire and cannonade filling the air.

  Bugs swarmed Dean’s face and body, sticking to the heavy coat of sweat before he could brush them away. Dean kept his rifle up, scanning the horizon and thick cluster of trees that had the potential to provide cover for the Chinese soldiers.

  Dean held up his hand, stopping the platoon behind him, then dropped to his knee, his men mimicking the motion. He listened carefully in the silence between the artillery fire coming from the coast and kept his eyes focused on the iron sight at the tip of his rifle.

  There was a quick flash in the bushes to Dean’s left, and he pivoted in the same direction and opened fire. His unit followed suit, and a cluster of Chinese soldiers was caught in the crossfire, chucking a handful of grenades in a last desperate attempt.

  “Everybody down!” Dean leapt for cover then covered his head as the earth erupted in geysers of soil, flesh, and blood. The ground rippled with percussions, and Dean’s ears rang as he rolled onto his back, where he checked his limbs and body for any shrapnel or injuries. When he appeared to be clear, he pushed himself up. “Jason!”

  Most of the men lay lifeless on the ground, some of them in more than one place. When Dean took a step forward, more gunfire exploded to his right, and he ducked, returning fire. He rolled along the dirt and low-lying brush until he made it to the cover of a tree.

  Vibrations from each bullet rippled through the tree trunk, and Dean checked his ammo count. He waited for a lull in the gunfire then planted his right foot just outside the cover of the tree, turning, his rifle aimed at the cluster of Chinese, taking out three of the five before his ammo ran out. But just before he jumped back behind the tree trunk, more gunfire erupted from Dean’s left and dropped the two remaining Chinese soldiers.

  “Jason.” The word dripped with relief as Dean watched his brother limp over, his left pant leg damp with blood. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, a piece of shrapnel just grazed me.”

  Dean looked back toward the lifeless bodies of their platoon. “Head back to the boats. We should have an established beachhead by now. Get some medical attention.”

  “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  Dean led the two of them through the jungle and kept a slower pace to allow time for the rest of their soldiers landing on the shore to catch up with them, bringing with them fresh ammo and bandages that Jason used to clean the cut on his calf.

  The trek through the jungle was painstakingly slow. The island trees and brush only grew thicker the closer they moved to Delun’s camp. Every few hundred yards, a Chinese scout team would cross their path, but the Mars contingent managed to take them out before they had a chance to sound any alarms.

  Dean slowed his pace, the units behind him crouching down, as he approached the edge of the jungle where Delun’s camp was stationed. Foliage blocked most of the view, but the sheer number of bodies he saw rush back and forth in the opening told him they’d arrived. He signaled the rest of the unit to spread out, creating a front line to cut through whatever defenses Delun prepared. He would have normally sent a scout team, but with Kemena in Delun’s hands, he didn’t have time. Every moment wasted was one more in which her life was in danger. He needed to get her out. And he needed to do it now. Dean dropped his hand, and the soldiers sprinted from the jungle, bursting through the foliage, firing into whatever enemy crossed their path.

  The Chinese were caught off guard, and the lull in action offered Dean and his men an opportunity to advance deeper into the camp until the long, growing din of the alarms brought the Chinese out of their stupor and finally initiated a response.

  Bullets zipped back and forth, and Dean and Jason stayed close together, the brothers watching each other’s backs as they moved through the camp. Dean looked to the coast, where he saw the Chinese ships that were a part of the blockade go up in flames and the first vessel of his fleet break into the port, cannons thundering from its starboard and port sides, the trailing fingers of curled smoke falling into the corpse-filled waters below.

  “Dean!” Jason grabbed his shoulders and shoved him down, bullets thumping into the crate they used for cover. More of their soldiers appeared from the jungle’s edge, their units slowly pushing forward. “We need to get to a better vantage point. Kemena could be anywhere.”

  Dean heard his brother’s words but felt a delay in his response. His mind grew static, cloudy. The ground began to feel uneven under his feet. He gripped the side of the crate for support, shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the uneven queasiness growing in his stomach.

  “Dean?” Jason asked, gripping his brother’s shoulder.

  Sweat rolled down the tip of Dean’s nose as well as his forehead, dripping into his eyes, stinging his vision. “He’ll keep her close, in the heart of the camp.”

  Jason grabbed Dean’s chin and forced his brother to look at him, but Dean knocked Jason’s hand away. “I’m fine.” He tucked the rifle into the crook of his arm and edged to the corner of the crates. “Let’s go!” And before Jason could protest, Dean turned the corner, blanketing fire on the cluster of Chinese pinning him down.

  The surge of adrenaline from the gunfire renewed Dean’s focus. His heart rate spiked, his motions more fluid, his mind running through every detail of the battlefield. Three o’clock, two armed assailants, pivot, squeeze the trigger, eliminated. Nine o’clock, four assailants en route to vehicle, aim for tires and engine, vehicle eliminated, roll right, plant foot, fire into the assailants, two down, push forward, aim, squeeze trigger, two more down.

  It was all nothing more than a systematic grid, each section needing to be cleared as quickly and efficiently as possible. Dean stepped over the limbs of fallen Chinese, hunting down what was left of their comrades, all the while his heart rate increasing, the adrenaline coursing through his body causing a tremor in his left hand.

  Everywhere Dean looked, no matter where he turned, bullets pierced flesh, the dying cries of men filled the air, and the scent of blood and lead was heavy in the dense moisture of the island climate. Every soldier crawled forward, trying to stay alive, looking for one more breath, one more beat of his heart, one more step on solid ground.

  A body collided into Dean’s back, tackling him to the dirt. He grappled with the force that hit him, blind and deaf to the shouts and face until Jason took hold of both Dean’s wrists, pinning them to the earth. “We’ve found her.”

  It took a moment for
the words to process, but as soon as they sank in, Dean scrambled to his feet. “Where?”

  “In the rear of the camp. We have men on them, but Delun is requesting you.”

  A lump caught in Dean’s throat. “Kemena. Is she—”

  “She’s alive.”

  The news nearly caused Dean’s knees to buckle, and he gripped Jason’s shoulder for support. He hurried through the camp, some of the Chinese still putting up a fight but most of the forces slowly surrendering. Jason led him to a large encampment, closely guarded by Delun’s men, and spiked, armored walls erected behind them.

  Dean’s men had positioned themselves behind crates, entrenchments, dirt piles, anything they could use as cover, all of their guns aimed at the Chinese, all of whom remained standing, unharmed, clearly in the open. “What is this?”

  “Delun is inside those walls with the governess, sir. He said that if any more of his men die, then he’s going to kill her.”

  Dean turned to his brother. “Order our men to stop. No more bloodshed.”

  “Dean, we can—”

  “Do it!” The viciousness of the words dripped from Dean’s lips as he wiped away saliva then turned back to the circle of guards. He took a step forward, and Jason grabbed his arm, but Dean yanked it away. “I’ll finish this. In whatever way I have to.”

  The Chinese soldiers did not move when Dean stepped out into the open, nor did they show any signs of aggression. “Delun!” His voice rang high into the air, and Dean suddenly became aware of the lack of gunfire behind him. “It’s over. The war is done!”

  “War is never done, Governor. You and I both know that.” Delun’s voice sounded muffled and faint through the walls.

  “Kemena?” Dean asked, yearning to hear her voice, wanting the firsthand knowledge that she was alive and unharmed.

  “I’m here, Dean!”

  He waited for more but received nothing else. “Let her go, Delun.”

  “History often gives the portrayal of heroes to the victor, since the pages are always written by them. Did you ever study Chinese history, Governor? My people have a long history of warfare and of oppression. More than a millennium ago, the Mongol horde conquered the Chinese but not without a great cost to their military and to their own dynasty. The Mongols were an interesting people, and at one point their dynasty stretched over all of Asia. They shared a tradition in which many cultures across the world partook in warfare: single combat. Two men, representing the best of their military, would fight to the death, and the victor would inherit the loser’s titles.”

  “You have lost, Delun. Return my wife to me, or I swear to you if any harm comes to her, you will beg for death before I am finished with you.”

  “My terms on nonnegotiable, Governor. You fight, alone. Or she dies.”

  The last word hung in Dean’s mind, taking hold of all of his senses, his controls, his will. The fatigue of battle had worn him thin, but he could not trust another with the fate of his people or his wife. He looked back to his brother, expecting Jason to tell him to back away from the folly, but he only nodded his head. And that was all the confirmation Dean required. “Name your warrior.”

  The Chinese guards surrounding the wall opened the steel gates but only enough for one person to squeeze through. Dean gripped the hilt of the sword and marched past the guards, his boots being sucked into the mud with each step. Once inside, he saw one man, armed with nothing but a sword, and Delun, who held Kemena by the arm, close to his side, the point of a gun to her head.

  Dean fought every urge to engage, but with Delun’s finger on the trigger, he knew it was too close. The guards from outside filed in behind him, engirding the structure, trapping him, the swordsman, Delun, and Kemena inside. “Is this your warrior?”

  “Hong is my master of swords,” Delun answered. “The combat will be with the blade of your choosing. No guns. Should I win, your wife will act as my security to your brother. Should you win, my men will lay down their arms.”

  Dean drew the blade from his sheath, the sharpened steel gliding effortlessly in his own hands. He sidestepped to his left, keeping an eye on the sword master. He focused all of his attention on the warrior in front of him until Delun thrust Kemena away and into the arms of one of the guards then drew his own sword.

  “But considering your family’s history in warfare and the fact that you’ve been difficult to kill, I thought I would help even the odds.” Delun circled around to Dean’s rear, and Dean pivoted with him, trying to keep both men in his peripheral vision.

  “Was this how the Mongols fought, Delun? Through treachery?”

  “They won by any means necessary,” Delun answered. “As will I.”

  Delun and Hong sprinted forward at the same time, with Delun attacking Dean’s legs, while Hong sliced for the head. Dean eluded Delun’s attack then blocked Hong’s blade, but the force of the blow sent him to the ground. Dean rolled backward, away from the steel blades seeking to end him.

  Sand and dirt kicked up behind Dean, and as he rolled to his feet, both men were on him once more. Dean parried left then right, his reflexes struggling to keep up with the lightning speed at which both men attacked. Every thrust, strike, and blow added to the burning fatigue in his muscles. The weeks at war, the lack of sleep, the stress, the injuries—all of them were reaching a crescendo.

  The three swords locked together, each man applying the pressure to cut the other down. Slowly, the blades inched closer and closer to Dean’s head, the spine of his own sword nearly touching his forehead. Quickly, he swung his left foot, tripping Delun, then shifted the brunt of his strength against Hong, pushing the man backward, separating the allies.

  Dean attacked viciously, but for every thrust and slice he offered Hong, the sword master deflected effortlessly then shifted into offense. Dean backpedaled, Hong’s blade dancing swiftly through the air, inching closer to the tender flesh along Dean’s neck. He glanced behind him just long enough to see Delun back on his feet, charging right for him. Dean shifted his feet clumsily in the sand, the stumble costing him a gash across his right arm, compliments of the sword master’s blade, but worth the price paid to deflect Delun’s attack.

  With both Delun and Hong working together once more, Dean was forced back into the defensive. Sweat grew slick on his arms and hands, and he felt the hilt slipping from his palm, sliding across his skin. The awkward grip caused Dean to haphazardly block a swing from Hong, and Delun capitalized by punching Dean across the jaw.

  Dean blindly lifted his sword, barely blocking Hong’s strike, then swung wildly through the air, stumbling backward. His attackers coiled and readied themselves to strike once more, approaching slowly.

  “I want you to know that I will spare your wife, even let the child in her womb grow,” Delun said, stepping side by side with Hong. “But should she give birth to a son, I will have him put to slaughter. If it’s a daughter, I’ll bed her myself when she’s of age.”

  Dean squeezed the hilt of the blade tighter, the pain in his body rolling off of him like the blood dripping from the gash in his arm. He planted his feet, bending at the knees, the tip of his steel aimed at the gap between Delun and Hong, and Hong froze, but Delun kept walking.

  “Emperor!” Hong dashed in front of Delun just as Dean thrust, deflecting Hong’s parry and piercing the soft flesh of Hong’s stomach. Hong jolted from the assault, his blade dropping to the ground, blood trickling down the front of his pants, and he collapsed to his knees.

  Dean yanked the blade from Hong’s stomach and reared on Delun, who was scrambling to his feet. His fingers grazed the hilt of his sword when Dean rammed his steel through Delun’s throat. The emperor gasped and choked, blood bursting from the veins and arteries along his neck. He gurgled on what last bit of life he had left and collapsed into the sand, convulsing until his body lay motionless.

  Dean’s legs gave way, and he fell to the dirt next to the two slain Chinese, exhausted and drained. He felt hands on him, and when he opened his e
yes, Kemena was there, tears streaming down her face. He looked to his right; the Chinese soldiers knelt, dropping their weapons, as Jason stormed inside with their men. Kemena was muttering something, but all he focused on was that she was alive, their child was alive; his family lived.

  Chapter 14 – 7 months later

  Dean paced the room back and forth, his nephews bouncing their legs anxiously, their eyes focused on the floor. All of the warring and battles of Dean’s past—nothing compared to the anxiety coursing through his veins at that moment.

  Dean perked his head up at the sound of an infant crying, and the room doors swung open, the young nurse smiling, sweat covering her face. “It’s a girl.”

  Kit and Sam jumped from their seats and nearly tackled Dean to the floor, then the three of them stumbled inside the delivery room, where Kemena lay red faced and sweaty, holding a bundle of white, soft cloth that was wrapped around a pinkish-red, crying baby girl.

  Dean kissed Kemena on the forehead as she cleaned the infant. “I love you so much.” He smiled, tears dripping from his face and onto Kemena’s shoulder.

  “I love you too,” Kemena answered.

  “What are you going to call her?” Sam asked, trying to peek over the side of the bed to get a good look at his new cousin.

  “I was thinking Luana,” Kemena answered. “After your mother.”

  “Luana.” Dean spoke the name softly, scooping the child up from her mother and cradling her gently in his arms. He kissed her softly on her forehead, repeating her name to her like a song, one that he would never grow tired of hearing.

  ***

  The palace walls had been redecorated since the last time Jason had visited Rio, but the occupants were far more welcoming than during his last visit. Gabriela sat across from him at the table while he looked over the new trade agreements she’d drawn up. “I don’t suppose you’re willing to bend a little on the dock taxes?”

  “We’ll renegotiate next year,” Gabriela answered. “I need the income to keep the ports stocked with soldiers to keep the peace. Ruiz’s loyalists still seem to be hanging around, although I don’t know why. Ruiz has been dead for months.”