The Fury Yet To Come

by Steven McKinnon

  22nd Day of Musa

  From somewhere deep within the jungle, the high-pitched song of a curassow wailed. Blades of weak sunlight speared through the canopy of trees, the last gasps of dying daylight. Twigs and leaves cracked underfoot as Fourth Platoon advanced, accompanied by the song of crickets and tree frogs.

  Lieutenant Trueno was with them, and one other man—not the fighting force that Gallows had hoped for, but not everyone was willing to defy orders—and not everyone owed Major Aramon Fallon a favour. They’d slipped out over an hour ago—was it too optimistic to hope N’Keres hadn’t noticed yet?

  ‘Remember, recon only.’ Trueno’s strident voice thrummed with authority. ‘We aren’t here to start a firefight.’ She stalked across mulchy ground with the finesse of a panther.

  Her man—Staff Sergeant Tarrison—had taken point. He wore a sculpted short grey beard and was armed with a scowl as lethal as Major Fallon’s. Every minute or so, he glanced down at the map in his hands.

  Gallows couldn’t get used to the musk of the earth and the aroma from exotic flowers; combined with the pressing heat, the citruses and spices made him dizzy. Gods know how Cooper’s holding up. But if the kid had to vomit, Gallows reckoned it was best he did it before they found the munitions factory.

  ‘Coordinates ain’t far from here,’ said Tarrison. They stood before a forking dirt road—the left path wended deeper into the jungle, while the right-hand trail circled down along a rocky ridge.

  The lieutenant held up a fist, halting the platoon. ‘Form up,’ she commanded. ‘We go left, watch the treeline. If the enemy is still in the area, we won’t miss them.’ Her voice crackled like burning kindling, and the violet in her irises glinted. Gallows remembered seeing her when they stormed the beach. ‘I’m not about to take on an enemy installation without backup,’ she continued, ‘no matter what Major Fallon expects. Let’s find out what’s so special about these damn islands.’

  ‘Ma’am!’ Omari bent down to examine the mud and beckoned Trueno over.

  ‘What is it, Sergeant?’

  ‘Footprints. Fresh.’

  ‘Idari?’

  ‘Negative.’ Omari stood straight. ‘Dalthean standard-issue boots. Recognise the prints anywhere. They don’t make sense… It’s like they was wandering, lost. They’re coming from the left, towards the factory coordinates.’

  ‘Check the right-hand path, see if there are any more,’ Trueno ordered.

  Omari examined the hooked path skirting around the ridge. ‘None.’

  ‘There aren’t any other units here,’ Gallows pointed out. ‘Could these belong to our Phase One troops?’

  Tarrison angled his head back. ‘More prints over here.’

  ‘Alright, gentlemen,’ Trueno began, ‘parameters have shifted: We’re now on a rescue operation. Stay calm, keep your eyes open. We track the footprints—Omari, send one of your men back to the camp and inform General N’Keres of the situ—’

  ‘Sh.’ Omari’s hand shot up.

  Like a machine, the rest of the squad moved as one, taking defensive positions.

  Gallows scanned the treeline with his rifle, hefting it up towards the canopy of leaves. He’d heard it too—breathing, and the crack of a branch. Something was creeping nearby.

  ‘What’s going on?’ whispered Cooper.

  ‘Quiet,’ Trueno urged through her teeth.

  Grass swayed, and the glassy eyes of a prowling black cat peered out at Gallows.

  ‘Gods above,’ breathed Rocco, lowering his gun. ‘It’s a panther. Leave it be and it’ll leave us.’

  The panther appraised the squad before dissolving back into the treeline. Gallows permitted himself a breath.

  ‘Don’t normally see panthers during daylight,’ Omari pointed out. ‘Something’s got it riled.’

  Gallows looked to the sky—night was overcoming the sun. Soon the whole jungle would be dark.

  ‘Actually, “panther” isn’t strictly correct,’ started Helmsley. ‘It’s a jaguar with a melanin pigment—’

  ‘Friendly!’ Tarrison interrupted, swinging his rifle to the side.

  Gallows didn’t lower his weapon, but Tarrison was right—a young man in a tattered Dalthean uniform approached them, walking like a drunkard. He had a shaved head and a broken nose. The bruising on his face made it difficult to place an age on him, but Gallows reckoned he was as young as Cooper.

  ‘Flash!’ Omari called. He held a hand up for the soldier to stop moving. ‘Flash!’

  Trueno raised her weapon to the new arrival. ‘Give the damn countersign, son.’

  The soldier said nothing.

  ‘Countersign,’ Trueno repeated.

  ‘Thunder,’ breathed the stranger.

  Trueno’s shoulders sagged. She motioned to Tarrison. ‘Reel him in.’

  ‘You need a medic, son?’ the staff sergeant asked. ‘How bad you injured?’

  ‘Helmsley,’ said Trueno, ‘examine him.’

  ‘Wait,’ Gallows urged. ‘Something ain’t—’

  Before he could finish, another Dalthean trooper peeled out of the treeline, walking with the same awkward gait as the first.

  In spite of the injuries on display, both men wore contented smiles.

  Gallows’ sweat turned cold on his skin. What the hell?

  Tarrison guided the first man over—but as the staff sergeant reached out, the other man unsheathed a concealed blade—and rammed it three times into the staff sergeant’s gut. Tarrison slumped to the ground.

  ‘Hostiles!’ snapped Trueno. Without hesitating, she opened fire with the slow and bulky Vindicator in her hands. Both of the Phase One soldiers fell with bullets in their heads.

  Helmsley ran over to Tarrison—the staff sergeant was spitting blood and gasping for breath.

  ‘We have to get him back!’ Helmsley shrieked. ‘He’ll bleed out!’

  ‘Fall back!’ Trueno ordered.

  ‘Sarge!’ called Rocco. ‘We firin’ on our own men?’

  Omari shot him a look. ‘What’s it look like?’

  A howl slashed through the air like a reaper’s scythe—Helmsley didn’t see the kiro as he plummeted from the trees and arced his curved shamshir across his chest.

  Helmsley fell, clutching at the gaping wound.

  ‘Incoming!’ Gallows opened fire—the warrior fell, eyes wide, but another one tore out from the shadows on all fours, advancing like a spider and kicking Rocco’s legs away. Omari’s Mouthshutter left a gaping hole in the kiro’s head.

  ‘Stick together!’ ordered Trueno. ‘Short, controlled bursts—we fight our way back to camp.’

  Gunfire raged in the jungle—Gallows wasn’t sure if he was hitting enemies or air. Trueno snapped left and right, a single bullet bursting from her repeater each time—one shot, one kill.

  A regular Idari soldier fired at Gallows—the bullet hit a tree at Gallows’ back, but the Idari was quick—he ran full pelt, batting Gallows’ Vindicator away with the bayonet at the end of his rifle. Gallows kicked out and headbutted the soldier, before grabbing the knife sheathed on his lower back and drawing it across the Idari’s throat.

  He fell, gargling blood. Gallows swung around, pulling the trigger at anything that moved in the trees.

  ‘Tarrison’s dead!’ Cooper shouted. ‘Helmsley! Helmsley!’

  ‘Corporal!’ barked Trueno. ‘Get back to camp, alert N’Keres and get him to—’

  The snap of a rifle, and blood flowered on Trueno’s uniform.

  ‘Lieutenant!’ Gallows screamed.

  But she crumpled to the ground without a word.

  A woman in dark Dalthean blue stumbled out of the foliage, Vindicator stuttering with empty clicks, unfocused eyes looking down at Trueno’s body. She stood there with the thin curl of a smile playing on her lips—unmoving, like she was waiting for someone to tell her what to do.

  Gallows shot her. ‘Trueno! Lieutenant, can you hear me? Shit.’

  ‘Help… Help…’ Helmsley wailed.

  Ga
llows’ Vindicator pressed into his shoulder. Faces with gold and silver swirls materialised from the jungle, spears and swords shining in the sunlight. Gallows took a step back, rounds bursting from the muzzle.

  ‘Gallows!’ yelled Omari.

  He didn’t move fast enough—from nowhere, the tip of a spear pierced Gallows’ chest. He screamed, watching as his blood ran through a reservoir in the blade. Gallows looked up to see the kiro’s stare boring into him. Saliva dripped from the warrior’s mouth and his teeth shone like sharp steel. Gallows wanted to fight back, but his limbs didn’t obey.

  The kiro’s head erupted. He collapsed, still clutching the spear, his dead weight wrenching the blade from Gallows. Blood flowed out of him like a rupture in a cask of wine.

  ‘Target down!’ yelled Rocco, his rifle trailing smoke.

  ‘Clear!’ yelled Omari. ‘Bug out before more come!’

  Gallows dropped to one knee. Rocco ran over to him, voice mumbling. ‘It’s alright, mate, it’s alright, you’re gonna be alright...’

  ‘We’re moving!’ roared Omari. ‘Rocco, get Gallows to his feet!’ he ordered. ‘Cooper, status!’

  ‘Helmsley’s bleeding out!’ cried Cooper, hunched over his comrade.

  ‘I don’t…’ Helmsley’s hands clawed up at Cooper’s face. ‘I don’t… want… to die…’

  ‘Stay awake, mate, stay awake.’ Cooper fumbled with Helmsley’s medikit. ‘Just stay awake and tell me what to do.’

  ‘We’ll get through this,’ said Rocco. He dressed Gallows’ wound and helped him to his feet, but he was still leaking blood. ‘Back to the beach before more of those bastards come!’

  Gallows grasped for words. ‘Why did… Phase One turn on us?’

  An explosion turned night into day.

  ‘Flare!’ yelled Rocco.

  ‘Nah,’ said Omari, his eyes widening. ‘Fire.’

  Gallows stared up to the sky—Omari was right. Searing, bright orange flames rose up and enveloped the jungle.

  ‘Incoming!’ yelled Omari, then started shooting.

  ‘Shit. Rocco, move!’ roared Gallows. He peeled himself from Rocco and opened fire, but his injury rendered his aim wild.

  Omari’s weapon swivelled left and right, exploding skulls and leaving gaping holes in chests.

  ‘Hostiles, left!’ Rocco yelled.

  The distinctive snap of Idari flintlock rifles rang out. Bullets tore clumps from trees. Gallows took aim and loosed rounds, but his muscles were growing weak from blood loss. Voices called around him and the searing heat from the fire crept closer.

  ‘North-east, incoming!’

  ‘I’m dry, cover me!’

  ‘—don’t want to die, don’t want to die—’

  ‘Stay awake!’

  ‘We gotta find cover!’

  ‘Fall back, fall back!’

  Gallows’ boots sank into the mud. Bloody gore spilled from wounds. Without thinking, he slammed a new magazine into his rifle and kept shooting. The weapon’s weight burned the muscles in his arms.

  ‘This way!’ Rocco tapped Gallows’ shoulder and pulled him back. ‘Down the ridge trail!’

  ‘We don’t know where it leads!’ howled Cooper. ‘We can’t leave Helmsley!’

  ‘We can’t stay in the open!’ growled Omari. ‘Unless we get cover, we’re as good as—’

  A bullet struck Omari in the head.

  ‘Sarge!’ cried Rocco as Omari crumpled to the dirt. ‘Oh shit! Shit!’

  ‘Incoming!’ Gallows warned.

  Rocco screamed—his rifle spat bullets until it ran dry.

  ‘On me!’ yelled Gallows. He jumped over Omari’s body. His wound burned like a red-hot poker—he felt it steal the life from him. He wouldn’t last much longer. ‘Cooper, pull Helmsley into cover! Rocco! Rocco!’

  ‘S… sir!’

  ‘Cover Cooper!’

  ‘Traitorous finisa bastards!’ yelled Rocco.

  Gallows clung close to the jutting rock of the ridge and made his way along the narrow trail. The path overlooked a mass of thick trees, snaking vines and precarious pits—the Idari could be hiding anywhere.

  ‘Clear!’ Gallows yelled behind him. ‘We take the trail and double back to the beach!’

  Cooper followed Gallows down; the kid was struggling to shoulder Helmsley’s weight. Helmsley himself clutched at the slash across his chest, eyes rolling up into his head.

  Rocco flailed around the corner, pressing a new magazine into his repeater. ‘How the hell did they find us?’

  ‘Doesn’t… matter,’ breathed Gallows. ‘C’mon, keep moving. We hit the treeline, stay low and head back—’

  Bullets cut Gallows off. The Idari were on their heels.

  ‘Run!’ he called. He leapt over the ridge, rock and dirt flying up as his feet gouged a path, sliding in the mud and into the depths of the jungle.

  Gallows rolled onto his side, picking up Gods knew how many more cuts and bruises.

  Helmsley followed, his flailing body twisting as he rolled down. He whined in pain, and Gallows just managed to stop the private’s head from glancing off the side of a boulder.

  ‘Watch it!’ said Cooper, untangling himself from the rocks when he landed.

  ‘Shit-shit-shit-shit.’ Rocco hit the ground hard, but he was in better shape than Gallows.

  Gallows felt his legs buckle, but he kept standing. Cooper and Rocco helped Helmsley to his feet, shouldering him together.

  ‘C’mon,’ breathed Gallows, feeling his head go light.

  There was no way to know where the ridge path would take them, but they didn’t have a choice. They cut a path through the jungle, keeping the rocky hills in sight and using them to navigate. Gallows doubted Helmsley would make it—and he was far from convinced about himself.

  It didn’t take long before they encountered another patrol. One regular trooper and one kuramanusa stood guard by a stone archway. They both carried rifles.

  ‘Why is there a gate in the middle o’ nowhere?’ asked Rocco.

  ‘Looks like it belongs… to a fifteenth century castle,’ said Gallows. ‘Maybe Phadrosi or Mercurian.’

  ‘How in all hells do you know this shit?’ said Rocco.

  ‘Treasure hunter and explorer, remember?’ Gallows armed sweat from his eyes, but even that action sent fresh pain reverberating through him. ‘Who’s got ammo?’ Rocco and Cooper shook their heads.

  Gallows had rounds left in his Vindicator, but no spare magazines. ‘Shit.’ Two hostiles, both armed. Hit the regular first, then the kuramanusa.

  ‘Hey, wait, wait,’ said Cooper. He set Helmsley down, and from the medic’s kit, he took out a bottle of alcoholic solution.

  ‘Planning on having a damn knees-up?’ Asked Rocco.

  ‘No.’ Cooper’s tremoring fingers pulled the stopper away. ‘Give me your lighter.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Rocco.

  ‘Give me a light. Quick!’

  ‘Gave up smoking, actually—just keep ’em to test myself.’ Rocco took his lighter and handed it to Cooper. ‘Just ’cause I ain’t had a puff in four years don’t mean I don’t like my lighter—I want that back.’

  Cooper tore a piece of cloth from his sleeve and doused it with the diluted igneus from the lighter, before stuffing it into the bottle. He made sure to leave enough fluid in the lighter.

  ‘A Tarevian Cocktail,’ Cooper explained. He set fire to the rag and hurled the bottle to the two hostiles. It hit the regular soldier, flames enveloping him in an instant. The fire leapt onto the kuramanusa—shrill, anguished screams tore out from them both.

  Cooper handed the lighter back to Rocco and, face beaming, said, ‘Told you I’m a good chem—’

  In one fluid movement, a kiro descended from a treetop and swung his shamshir through Cooper’s legs, finishing the kid with a knife in his throat.

  ‘Cooper!’ Gallows swung his rifle around and fired his remaining bullets into the kiro’s heart.

  ‘Aw, shit.’ Rocco sat on his heels, clutching his
head with both hands. ‘We’re done. Done.’

  Gallows couldn’t find a reason to argue. He had no more ammo left, and the Idari would have heard the gunshots and seen the fire.

  He looked down at Cooper’s body. His eyes were frozen open. ‘We have to leave him,’ Gallows said. ‘Rocco, help me… get Helmsley up…’

  From behind, Idari voices called something. Gallows tried to grab Rocco and move, but his limbs weighed heavier than an anvil. He fell to one knee.

  A bullet struck Rocco in the shoulder, another in his chest. Through the shadows encroaching on his vision, Gallows saw Rocco’s torso judder and fall back, his uniform smothered in blood.

  More soldiers spilled from every angle. Rocco lay crumpled in the mud, and Helmsley’s skin was as pale as a corpse.

  They were dead.

  I’m going to die out here.

  I’m going to die… Sera… She’ll never know how much I…

  A force seized Gallows, rising from his gut and spreading through his limbs.

  He got to his feet.

  Time slowed as Gallows charged the man in front of him, brandishing his Vindicator like a club and using it to smash the enemy’s head.

  A knife slashed Gallows’ chest—with a guttural snarl, he pulled its owner towards him and gnawed the Idari’s ear clean off, before driving the butt of his rifle into the gaping hole. Blood flowed down Gallows’ chin. He forced his legs to carry him along the trail. The will to survive overtook all other instincts.

  He fought and clawed and kicked, but there were too many enemies. Something brought Gallows to the ground; copper filled his nose and mouth and feet stamped on him. A sword caught sunlight as it whistled down towards him.

  At the last second Gallows rolled, taking his knife and slashing the tendons of the enemy. He seized the Idari’s sword and hacked and slashed at anyone who came near him.

  Fury propelled him. Bloodlust gave him the will to live. He opened a man’s belly and sent his guts snaking out, then plunged his knife into another’s throat. Muzzle flashes popped and flared but bullets wouldn’t hurt him.

  Gallows charged towards a kuramanusa with an old Idari rifle. The slave was just a kid; he stared at Gallows with wide eyes and the gun wavered in his hands.

  Whatever look Gallows wore on his face emptied the kid’s bowels—he raised the rifle—but before he got a shot off, Gallows dived towards him, slamming the kid’s head into a rock with a wet thud, the smell of shit and blood reeking.