by Lars Teeney
The horde of refugees on the piers raced forward, in a panicked state, did not listen to pleas for calm among the Apostate crews. The crowd forced their way past a barrier and flooded onto the gangplank of the Bilsby Fairy. The fear-stricken refugees pounded upon the closed bulkhead of the ship. They shouted for it to open. Finally, a crewmember relented and opened the bulkhead, which resulted in a stampede that flattened him into the deck. The horde poured in, filling every compartment of the passenger liner.
The Apostate militia lines were feeling the pressure of the sudden and brutal attack. Rip-Torn attempted to rally the men from hastily prepared trenches. Rip-Torn organized a picket line of miltiamen and he directed them to pour a volley of mixed bolt-action rifle and automatic fire into the human-wave of enemy soldiers, coming like the tide. The Apostate fire dented the numbers of the ‘Remnant Regime’ attackers among his section of the defensive line, and slowed the enemy advance, forcing them to take cover among the debris. At other sectors of the Apostate defensive line, the amor-clad Rangers charged relentlessly and crashed into the defending militia’s ranks. The combat was now hand-to-hand. The highly-trained Rangers used plasma bayonets to carve up many defenders.
Meanwhile, Pride-Swarm had ordered the Apostate A.P.C.s to move out along the waterfront. He led them in an attempt to flank the enemy who attacked throught the city streets. He directed them north, then estimating the enemy’s position, he had his column turn left onto a wide avenue that he guessed would lead them to an outlet to the rear of ‘Remnant Regime’ lines. They raced onward, hoping to catch the enemy unawares.
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On the bridge of the North Carolina, Greta watched helplessly as the Apostate infantry on shore absorbed the ‘Remnant Regime’ assault like a soaked sponge. She could see through long-range sensors that their lines buckled in some places, and threatened to break. She scanned the scene, assessing threats and prioritizing targets, and she was consoled with the knowledge that the rest of the battleships were doing the same. With assistance from the North Carolina’s targeting computer, she isolated the most urgent threats, a pair of Martyr tanks that were perched upon debris piles that towered over the central portion of the battlelines. The tanks shelled the Bilsby Fairy passenger liner, and the peir, killing refugees and defenders alike.
“This is Gale-Whirlwind, all Captains are cleared to pick targets and fire independently. Be sure not to kill our own!” With this announcement the gunnery crews aboard the four other battleships, the Indiana, the Kentucky, the Illinois, and the Alabama, prepared their turrets to fire. High explosive shells were loaded into the massive guns. The same process was occurring in the batteries of the North Carolina. After several moments of stressful waiting while watching her own lines being overrun, Greta received word that the guns of her ship were ready to fire.
“All guns! Fire!” she yelled to her gunnery crews.
As the huge cannons of the North Carolina spewed forth hellfire, the shipp was rocked by the power of the barrage. High-explosive rounds were sent in an arc over the docked passenger liners, the piers, and the lines of engaged infantry, to dig deep into the debris mounds on which the Martyr tanks were positioned. The rsulting explosions uprooted the material underneath the tanks, sending them careening down into landslides of loose rubble. The tanks were swallowed into the resettling slag. Countless ‘Remnant Regime’ infantry were also enveloped in the cascading tide of debris. ‘Remnant Regime’ sharpshooters and soldiers took up positions in sky-towers overlooking Apostate lines. Ranger snipers started to pick off Apostate officers with deadly accuracy. Greta had received these disheartening reports, and she instructed the other battleships to target these structures.
The Indiana, the Kentucky, the Illinois, and the Alabama all let loose a cannonade that deafened ears and drowned out all other sound. Smoke from the barrage darkened the air over the Upper Bay. Several sky-towers were struck by the well-aimed shots, as the high-explosive shells tore through the facade and the interior of the buildings, ingniting all flammable material, where men and material were disentagrated by the firestorm. Smoke columns rose from where the shells had impacted and detonated, reducing the interiors to smoldering ruins. With just one volley from her formidable battlesip group, Greta had turned the tide of the battle. She could see from long-range sensors that the Apostate militia began to rise from the trenches, and from cover, to mount an impromptu counterattack. Her spirit soared.
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For the first time during the battle, Vice-Deacon Paulus started to doubt his divine favor. He froze up when a flurry of requests for action were sent his way by the pilot and other officers via his neural implant, from other areas of the battle. He sat helplessly as his Rangers perished among collapsing buildings, and counterattacking enemy infantry. The Vice-Deacon was reminded of his substancial armored reserve that were bottlenecked among the narrow avenues north of the port. They had been, up until the battleship cannadade, progressing smoothly toward the port, but the advanced had screeched to a halt. Finally, Paulus regained his resolve.
“All tank commanders! Hear me! Reverse course, repeat, reverse your tanks. We will regroup and prepare a defensive line at the old City Park! I am told it will be sheltered from battleship support fire there!” he hastily barked out the orders. The Martyr tank engines roared as they were thrown into reverse. Down three separate avenues the tanks sped in reverse to the north. Then suddenly, the rear tanks were peppered with fifty caliber machinegun fire and grenade launcher rounds. Apostate A.P.C.s poured out from the northern streets, blazing circles around the tanks that struggled to back out of the bottlenecks. A rear tank had been singled-out by multiple A.P.C.s and all concentrated fire upon it, raking the rear armor of the tank and destroying its treads. Grenade rounds impacted off its turret and bottom armor, the tank was imobilized and set ablaze, stopping it dead. The bext tank in line slammed into the wreckage, and the subsequent tank into it, and so on, until a mssive pile-up occurred. The column was trapped but the rear Martyr rotated its turret and fired its main gun at an exposed A.P.C, which errupted like a tinderbox when struck.
More Apostate A.P.C. pour into the area, and targeted the other rear tanks, with withering fire the A.P.C.s disabled all the rear tanks. More traffic jams deveopled, but the Pilot of Vice-Deacon Paulus’s tank would not have it. He turned his tank in a five-point turn, and swerved around the wreckage. The Martyr reached the open avenue among the swarming A.P.C.s, where upon Vice-Deacon Paulus’s tank fired with its main gun once more, striking the rear end of a speeding A.P.C., sending it end-over-end, into the air, landing up-side-down. The Martyr tanks from one avenue were now manuevering through the destroyed tank shells to engage the badly out-gunned Apostate vehicles in a clash that would favor the Martyr tanks.
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Rip-Torn had led a company of Apostate militia armed with anti-tank rifles and missile launchers beyond a gap that had formed in ‘Remnant Regime’ infantry lines. His company raced toward the clash between Martyr tanks and Apostate A.P.C.s. He was determined to keep his brother, Pride-Swarm, alive, who was currently leading the Apostate A.P.C. columns, but they were in danger. Rip-Torn’s vangaurd had reached a column of Martyr tanks that had just recomposed themselves and were set to break out of the bottleneck. Without having to say a word, two crews manning anti-tank rifles set up on debris piles, at nearly point-blank range, they took aim at the rear tank. They fired off their projectiles at nearly the same point on the rear armor of the tank. The shaped charges, ignited plasma which burned through the armor, and pierced the passenger compartment, which then ricochetted all around the inside, dicing up anything organic in the way. The tank ceased to stir. His men repositioned their arms and others moved into adjacent buildings, climbing rat-infested stariways to reach upper floors and rooftops, where they deployed their anti-tank rifles and missiles. Rip-torn accompanied a platoon carrying these weapons to a rooftop of a small apartment building. By now other anti-tank militia under
his command had begun firing down on the unsuspecting tanks, reducing many to burning heaps or killing the crews within. Farther up the tank column, the enemy had recieved word of the ambush from above. Tanks in the middle of the stopped-up column rotated their turrets to meet the new threat, but they did not know the exact position of the Apostate anti-tank infantry. The result was guessing and wild shots at the upper floors of the buildings. Apostate troops gave away their positions by the muzzle flashes and missile vapor trails fired from bay windows and rooftop parapets.
One, then two, then three, Apostate positions were blown to pieces by the Martyr tanks’ main guns.
“Target the lead tank that is firing at our A.P.C.s!” Rip-Torn instructed an anti-tank rifle crew to acquire a new target. They swiveled the rifle and sighted in on a new tank. Scoring a direct hit, and celebrating, they failed to notice a Martyr cannon pointed right at their position on the roof.
“Incoming—” Rip-Torn managed to yell out as the round bit into the facade directly below them. The explosion incinerated the anti-tank rifle crew and collapsed the roof below Rip-Torn’s feet. He felt a firy pain in his torso, and the sensation of freefalling overtook him. His body cascaded down the slope of the wrecked top story of the building, and finally came to rest on rubble. Everything went dark—his part in the battle was over.
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Vice-Deacon Paulus’s Martyr tank had been struck by mutiple projectiles. The pilot was injured, but still driving, and fumes leaked into the cab. Its main gun still fired, claiming another Apostate A.P.C. Vice-Deacon Paulus coughed profusely, and panicked as he was informed via his neural implant that his tank command was being reduced vehicle-by-vehicle. He also received reports of the routing of his Rangers and Regulars all along the infantry lines. His forces were in full retreat, and his tank columns lie in ruins. Paulus was frozen by indecision. His pilot yelled and pleaded for instruction. Vice-Deacon Paulus stared down at the pilot blankly. He tried to say something but nothing came out of his mouth. Then, the front of the cab errupted in fire and a projectile bore through the pilot’s body, and a fine, red mist spritzed the Vice-Deacon across his face.
“Oh God! Why?” he yelled, but now he was all alone. He looked up helplessly as sparks fell upon him from the access hatch above. It was being cut upon by a plasma torch. The Vice-Deacon lost control of his bladder and soiled himself. The hatch swung open with rusty protest. The Vice-Deacon witnessed the hardened faces of Apostate soldiers staring down upon him with weapons drawn. A man reached down and grabbed the frail Vice-Deacon by his clerical collar and hauled him up out of the hatch. The Vice-Deacon whimpered.
“What shall we do with this scum, Pride-Swarm, sir?” the bulky Apostate soldier dropped the Vice-Deacon off the side of the tank, where he plunged into the mud, face first. Pride-Swarm approached the Vice-Deacon, who spat mud from his mouth, and then looked up in terror.
“I need to talk to this piece of shit, who killed my mother!” Pride-Swarm growled at the Vice-Deacon.
“Wha-what? I didn’t—” Vice-Deacon tried to recuse himself.
“Shut up! Answer my questions! How many buildings do you have wired with explosives?” Pride-Swarm yelled at the Vice-Deacon, who recoiled.
“I don’t understand! What—” Vice-Deacon was clearly confused.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about! Talk, you bastard! How did you infiltrate the Neo Railroad?” Pride-Swarm grabbed the Vice-Deacon by his collar and shook him violently.
“No! Please, please! Have mercy! I don’t know what you—” The Vice-Deacon’s pleas were interrupted by a soldier, yelling out for Jaspar Wynham.
“Jaspar! Jaspar!” the man called. Pride-Swarm loosened his grip on the Vice-Deacon and looked toward the frantic soldier.
“What is it?” Pride-Swarm asked.
“It’s your brother, Merriwether! He’s been gravely wounded! We have evacuated him to the Bilsby ‘Epic’ for treatment!” the soldier announced.
“Goddamnit! Okay, I’m coming! Put this man in shackles and confine him to a cabin on one of the passenger liners!” With that command, Pride-Swarm was off to check on his brother. Apostates soldiers stepped forward to seize the Vice-Deacon, who slapped restraints on the man, then they dragged him away, while ‘mop-up’ operations continued through many city blocks.
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GOLGOTHA
As Consuela, her siblings, and the Rude Boy contingent had traveled further north through Mexico, they became more disheartened as the kilometers progressed. They had traveled up the East Coast of Mexico in the wake of the Societatum Pentagram’s path of conquest and crucifixion. Indeed, the Order was fulfilling the vision of the late Monsignor Carafa, under the leadership of the new Monsignor, Francis. She possessed a singly-focused ruthlessness that Carafa had lacked, and that scared Consuela. Town after town had either been razed and crucified or submitted to the Order, Veracruz, Tuxpan, and Tampico were just a few of the towns that had suffered the Order’s wrath. The Rude Boy checkered bus only stopped when it was absolutely necessary, and they never lingered.
Consuela would attempt to distract Javier and Lupe whenever they passed through a town where crucifixions had taken place. When this happened she would begin to lead them in song, either gospel or old Nicaraguan folk tunes that she had found as records, uncovered from the ancient cities that had been reclaimed by the jungle when she was younger. After crossing the Texas border, by taking advantage of the breech that the Order must have created at the Border Fortress Wall, the checkered bus had come upon the sizable city of San Antonio, Texas. Consuela was quick to gain her sibling’s attention as she started another singing game. This time she chose the song, “El Solar de Monimbo letra”,
“Si me tocan Dos Bolillos
o siquera el garañón
vo´a enseñarles al dedillo
lo que baila Monimbó
aquí no hay chochera floja
ni flojera sin corsé
pa´ bailar me basta una hoja
o la punta de un ciprés”
Consuela dared not break eye contact with her siblings, otherwise they would gaze upon the legions of crucified victims. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that the Order would have rebounded back from the defeat they suffered by the Apostates, to become the dominant power in Central America, and then invade New Megiddo. But, this dread she felt also fueled her resolve to bring an end to the Order, especially for the murder of her parents. When it was apparent that there were no friendly faces to find among the population of San Antonio, they moved on through Eastern Taxes.
“¡Mi hermana! ¿Cuánto tiempo más tenemos que ir? (Sister! How much longer must we go?)” little Lupe cried out. She was tired and hungry and could not sleep on the uncomfortable bus seat.
“Ten paciencia, Chiquita. Nos detendremos pronto, (Have patience, little one. We will stop soon,)” Consuela tried to reassure her little sister. Javier just stared out the window, remaining silent.
At that moment the grinning Rude Boy, known as Shamrock, made his way back to Lupe’s seat. He flashed a smile at Consuela.
“May I?” he asked, and Consuela gestured for him to take a seat by Lupe, who stared up at the man with big eyes.
“¡Hola niña! This is for you!” Shamrock proclaimed as he pulled a synthetic flower from out of the thin air. It resembled a pink carnation. Lupe’s eyes lit up with excitement and reached out for the flower, which Shamrock handed to her.
“¡Gracias Señor! ¡Es hermoso! (Thank you, sir! It is beautiful!)” she exclaimed. Shamrock knew enough Spanish to infer her meaning. Lupe turned the flower over in her hand and attempted to smell it, but realized it was fake. However, she still appreciated the gift. Consuela had told her to put the flower in her hair, which she did, gladly. Lupe sat playing games with Shamrock, and he really had no idea what they actually played, but, never-the-less he played along. Consuela watched the two of them with amusement, and it
eased her mind for the time being.
After many games and some singing, Lupe had eventually tired herself out and she drifted off to sleep against Shamrock’s thick arm. Consuela looked over and smiled.
“The little one has tuckered herself out!” Shamrock said to her in a hushed tone.
“Thank you, Shamrock. My mind has been elsewhere. I couldn’t have calmed her better myself,” Consuela confessed.
“It is no thing. She reminds me of my little sister,” Shamrock recounted. Consuela’s interest was piqued. She thought that it was no surprise he was good with children.
“Oh yeah? What is your sister’s name?” Consuela inquired.
“Her name was Anna. She died when she was young, smallpox had swept through our village. It was in the days before the Two Tone government had poured funding into rediscovering vaccines,” he said.
“I am sorry for your loss,” Consuela offered, and laid a hand upon his forearm.
“It is no matter—listen, I have a few suggestions for you,” Shamrock said, changing the subject.