World War IV: Empires

by James Hunt

  Jason eyed the horizon, reaching for his rifle, searching for the shooter among the cliffs and jagged rocks, but saw nothing. He looked back behind him, the soldiers all aiming their rifles along the rocks, looking for the shooter as well. “See anything?”

  “No, Governor!”

  The air was dead quiet save for the wind that blew through the mountain passes. Jason listened for any slide of rock, any click of hammer, but heard nothing. He stepped out from his cover, and another bullet ricocheted next to his head. But this time he saw the shooter’s position and fired. “To the left of the vault!”

  Gunshots echoed behind him as the soldiers fired at the ridge but were soon cut short by another volley from their aggressors, two of his men taking bullets while the engineers pulled the wounded to cover. The gunfire increased, and Jason sprinted for the vault, bullets splintering off the stone around him. He slid to a stop near the vault’s entrance and fumbled for the pendulums around his neck. He’d need at least three other hands to open the door; the locks were too far apart. “I am Governor Jason Mars!” The gunshots ended, and Jason reloaded his rifle.

  “Son of Luke?” The voice echoed off the rocks.

  Jason slowly emerged from the side of the mountain with his hands in the air, still searching for the shooters. He looked over to the soldiers and engineers, motioning for them to keep their guns lowered. Finally, a man rose from behind a wall of rock. He kept a modern rifle crooked under his arm and the barrel aimed at Jason’s head. “I am.”

  Four others emerged from the surrounding rocks, all wielding the same type of rifles, and kept their guns up as the leader made his way down the side of the mountain. His clothes were old, worn, bulky, and built for colder weather and the rough terrain of the landscape. Yet while his body looked old, his face still exhibited the tight expressions of youth. “My father told me of Luke Mars.” The young man jumped the last few feet and landed gracefully on the same ledge of rock where Jason stood in front of the vault. “He died up here protecting whatever’s under this rock. Told me to do the same.” He eyed Jason suspiciously, his comrades staying in their positions on the high ground. “I was told Luke Mars had four sons.”

  Jason slowly reached for the pendulums around his neck and untucked them from the collar of his shirt. All four silver spheres dangled over his chest. “He did. My brother Dean and I are all that’s left. War is upon us.”

  The young man kept a bead on Jason as he plucked one of the silver spheres and pinched it between his fingers, then pressed the rifle’s barrel against Jason’s stomach. “Did your father tell you what’s inside?” The words left his mouth in a tone of wonderment, soft.

  Jason stepped back, removing both the rifle’s barrel from his stomach and the man’s fingers from the sphere. “No. He didn’t.” Jason slowly moved his finger to the trigger but kept the rifle at his side to avoid any knee-jerk reactions from the others.

  “Fathers tend to protect us from that which they think will kill us.” The young man finally took his gaze off the pendulum and looked Jason in the eye then lowered his rifle. “All clear!” The men lowered their weapons, and Jason exhaled, the tension built up in his body releasing. “My name is Fuller.”

  Jason turned back to his men and the engineers across the ledge. “Is there another way across?”

  “Yes,” Fuller answered. He gestured to the southwest, back from where they had come. “A small path diverts about a mile back. It’s hidden, and the unknowing eye wouldn’t see it. It starts off hard, but after a quarter mile it opens up into an easy walk.”

  Once it was determined the wounds on his soldiers were nothing more than flesh bites, they started the trek back down the mountain with the aid of one of Fuller’s scouts. Fuller then sent the others back to camp, telling them of Jason’s arrival. “It’ll be big news for everyone. There hasn’t been a Mars here in nearly thirty years. Most of those that had seen one are dead.”

  “How many of you are up here?” Jason didn’t imagine it was a large community that could survive in this landscape. He saw nothing but rocks. No water or soil to grow food. Any provisions that were sent up would have been depleted long ago.

  “About a hundred, but with winter coming, that number will plummet with the temperatures.” Fuller sat on a rock, resting his rifle across his lap, then started dismantling it. “Our people don’t live to grow old up here.” He wiped down the parts, cleaning each piece with a dirtied rag. “We were wondering if the Mars family even existed anymore.” He motioned over to the vault; the metal and steel looked aged and worn compared to the hard rock intermixed around the large bolts and joints. “There won’t be a man or woman in our village that won’t want to come see it open. Half of us believe that it’s empty.”

  “And the other half?” It was a question Jason himself had pondered. While his father had described some of what would be inside, he’d never seen the contents firsthand either. What lay beneath the tons of mountain might be nothing but dust now.

  “The other half believe the moment that vault is opened, hell itself will be released back onto earth, devouring all that’s left of our world.” Fuller chuckled after the words left him.

  “Is that what you believe?” Jason asked.

  Fuller took a moment to weigh the question, slowly putting his rifle back together. It was a modern Jason had never seen before, better than any of the weapons in their arsenal. From the look of the weapon’s sights, Fuller had missed hitting Jason on purpose. “I believe that you are here because you need something. Whatever lies in that mountain, you think it can save you. Whether it will, well, that’s another story entirely.”

  Once the rest of Jason’s party returned, he offered one key to Alvy, one to his lieutenant, and the other to Fuller. Jason twisted the sphere on the pendulum until a small key protruded. The others mimicked his motions, and each found the grooves of the lock on the thick steel door. “On three.” Jason looked at them spread out across the vault’s surface. “One. Two. Three.”

  All four men twisted their keys at the same time, and the resulting coordination was a loud clank that thudded through the thick vault door, gears turning and whining as if they would break and crumble from their lack of motion in the past fifty years.

  The latches locking the door in place burst from the rock, bits of dust falling from each mechanism from the top all the way to the bottom. Jason stood back as the vault door creaked open. The weight of the door rattled the rocks of the mountain as it opened.

  A rush of cold air greeted Jason as he stepped inside. The only light offered was from the rays of sun behind him. The ground felt smooth and even under his feet. He walked as far as the light would take him then stopped, groping the walls for guidance.

  “What do you see?” Fuller asked, shouting from the vault’s entrance.

  “Nothing.” Jason’s voice echoed through the darkness. The walls felt smooth under his hands as well. No bumps or grooves. He’d never felt a stretch of rock this smooth for this long. He looked behind him, and he’d walked so far that the light at the entrance had nearly been consumed by darkness. “Bring in some lanterns! I don’t know how far this hall go—”

  White light blinded Jason, and he squinted his eyelids shut, which did little to block out the luminous rays bursting around him. He held his hands over his eyes to help shield himself, and he was deaf to the shouts of his men screaming at the vault’s entrance.

  Slowly, Jason opened his eyes, his pupils adjusting to the brightness. He blinked furiously, shaking his head. Blurred figures suddenly took shape, but their forms were unlike anything he’d ever seen before. The tunnel he’d walked through had suddenly opened up into one enormous room, stretching farther than his eyes could see.

  “Governor!” Fuller shouted, coming up from behind, but then he stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes fell upon the same sight, the line of men behind him shuffling to a halt, everyone in awe.

  Stairs led to the bottom of the room, which was at least one hundre
d feet down and lined with hundreds of old relics from the past. Machines, vehicles, even planes dotted the massive hole carved out of the stone.

  The walls were supported by massive columns that ran like veins in the rock of the mountain, keeping everything in place. Jason walked over to a dust-covered box nearly a foot taller than him. They stretched all along the walls, thousands of the same size, color, and shape. Jason was the first to walk down, being mindful of his footing. As grandiose as the structure was, he knew it was old, yet from the design it looked as though it would stand for another thousand years.

  A few of the planes and vehicles Jason recognized from his grandfather’s stories, but his grandfather’s descriptions paled in comparison to the awe of seeing the feats of engineering for himself. Once on the floor, he turned around and saw everyone with the same admiration as his reflected on their faces, particularly Alvy and the two other engineers, and that’s when reality returned to him. “Can you use any of this?”

  Alvy brushed his fingertips down the side of one of the planes, cutting a path through the layers of dust, then rubbed the dirt between his fingers, watching the small granules fall to the floor. “What lies in this tomb hasn’t been seen for over half a century.” He kept his eyes on the plane then shifted his gaze to Jason. “It will take time. But yes.”

  “Then do what needs to be done. Bring down the supplies.” While the engineers set to their work and research, Jason continued to walk down the floor, passing under the shadows of the wings of the planes, veering between huge armored carriages fifty times the size of any horse, all with guns he’d never seen.

  “So they were right.”

  Jason turned to see Fuller standing behind him, his palm pressed against one of the thick-armored hulls of the metal carriages. “Who was right?”

  Fuller gestured around him. “These structures, these steel beasts—a general who equips his men with these weapons could rule the world, conquer and crush any opponent that stands in his way. War is hell. And if this is the pinnacle of war… then we truly did open up the gates of hell.”

  Chapter 5

  The expedition to the Black Rocks camp was no more than a three-day journey, so when they arrived in the wasteland clan’s territory on the third day and Dean found no trace of the tribe, a mixture of fear and panic struck him.

  All that remained of the camp was ash and caved-in mounds of dirt where huts once rose from the earth. Farther north, smoke was seen on the horizon, and Dean led his men through the abandoned camp, his eyes keen for anyone who may have lingered behind.

  The reasons for Chief Irons’s broken commitment eluded Dean, though he tried to make sense of it. The farther they rode, the more doubts clouded his mind. Even when he found the clans, he still wasn’t sure what he would tell them, how he would react. He didn’t have enough men to war with them, although if the tribes were on high alert, he might not have a choice.

  The closer they moved toward the smoke, the thicker the columns became, and with the scent of fire and ash that the wind brought also came chants of song and war. Dean ordered his men to slow their pace, and before they moved too close, they were greeted by a group of riders sent to intercept their course.

  All of the clansmen were armed, and Dean found himself relieved that it was the Black Rocks, and Chief Irons himself had ridden out. His face was painted for war and his clothes dirtied and bloodied from battle. “Chief, it is good to see you alive.”

  “Governor Mars, I thought you to be dead. My scouts have told me your capital burns.” Irons’s horse whinnied and stomped its hooves, agitated by the fact that they had to remain still.

  Dean wanted to choose his words carefully, but the lack of time and the length of their journey had eroded what patience was left in him. “Then I suppose you know that you and your men never saw the massacre of my people. You swore to me you would fight, Irons.”

  Chief Irons growled and bared his teeth, the primal response welling up from the very depths of his soul. “The Scarvers made that pact as well, Governor. And they also swore peace with the Black Rocks, but on the eve of your battle they came in the night, burning and tearing apart my village and my people. I had no choice but to war with them. And we war with them still.”

  Of all the clans, the Scarvers had been the most reluctant for any peace, but after the Wasteland Clan Wars the simple fact that they were so outnumbered threatened their existence. It was either peace or annihilation. Now, it seemed Chief Fullock had chosen the latter. “Where are the Scarvers now?”

  “Retreated,” Irons said, spitting at the ground. “They turned back to their lands. Tomorrow I will lead my riders and kill them all.” The young chief had bloodlust in his eyes, war the only known cure.

  “And what of the other clans?” Dean asked.

  “The Scarvers have been pillaging and burning what they want. I have spoken to the other chiefs, and they will ride with me into battle. This ends tomorrow.” Irons spoke with a finality that Dean had not heard before.

  “But at what cost?” Dean asked. While the prospect of wiping out the Scarvers was promising, Dean needed the rest of the clans in one piece to fight Rodion. Every life was valuable. “We have to think beyond Chief Fullock and his clan. The army that took my capital could turn farther southeast any day, marching over your lands. Wasting time and resources on this is foolish.”

  “He killed my people!” Irons roared, his horse lifting itself on its hind legs then crashing into the dirt, smacking its hooves on the earth. “I will not let that go unpunished!”

  Dean spurred his horse, brushing his stallion against Irons’s, bringing him nose to nose with the young chief. “Your need for revenge will kill your people, threaten everything we’re trying to build.” He leaned in close and made sure the young man knew Dean was not coming from any place of fear or cowardice. “You have to be stronger than your thirst for death. With Rodion ready to march at any moment, that thirst will be quenched soon enough.”

  A calm soothed Irons’s expression as Dean’s words settled in the young chief’s mind. He shifted in the saddle and motioned for Dean to speak in private. The two men galloped away from their men, the fire and smoke from the Black Rocks’ war traditions still raging on the horizon. “What do you propose I do, Dean? I cannot allow the Scarvers to go unpunished, and my men will never fight alongside them again. The only course of action that I can see is to kill them, once and for all.”

  “The Scarvers are only as strong as their leader. Chief Fullock is a madman; you and I have known it from the start.” Dean shook his head. Deals with the devil for the sake of peace. “I know your honor is at stake, but I am the one who brokered the peace between the clans, and it was I who called for aid. The burdensome shame in this treachery is mine.”

  “What do you propose, Governor?”

  There was only one option for Dean to take that would preserve both his soldiers and the rest of the clans. He knew Fullock would agree to it; he had despised Dean from the moment the two met. The Scarver chief would jump at the chance to rip his head off. “Tomorrow I will challenge Fullock to single combat.”

  Irons simply nodded and looked back to his people, chanting their songs of battle and praying to their gods for victory. “Chief Fullock is a fierce warrior. He has never been defeated in single combat. It will not be an easy fight, Governor.” He looked back, lines of worry on his face. “But then again, your family has never chosen the easy route.”

  Both leaders returned to their men, and Dean politely declined the offer to stay in the Black Rock camp. He didn’t want to become distracted by the traditions of the clan. He needed his own time to prepare. His way.

  Like most nights before battle, Dean found himself restless. But instead of fighting it, he chose to gallop east, past the Black Rock camp. Once he was miles away from the chants and chatter, he dismounted and gazed at the night sky.

  The stars were plentiful, and he recalled the memories of his childhood when he and his brothers would c
amp outside, the cool night air forcing them close to the fire. He, along with all of his brothers, was always restless growing up. Everyone always had to be moving. It was a restlessness that plagued them even as grown men. But those times when they would camp, in the dead of the night, with the fire raging in front of them, there was a calming stillness among them all.

  Every eye watched the flames wavering and popping against the wood, turning it from life to ash. There was always something mesmerizing about those fires they created paired with the talks of glory and girls he shared with his brothers, Lance’s raucous laughter, Fred’s playful touch when they wrestled. With all the death that surrounded them in war, at their hearts they were men of life, so much so that Dean took for granted that façade of immortality. Now, all that was left of Lance and Fred was in those memories. Both of them had returned to the earth like the falling ash of the logs in the fires they built all those nights with their deft hands.

  Dean stayed by himself until the first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, casting the sky into a grey haze. He dressed for battle, forgoing the pistol and rifle, only keeping his sword in his belt. He mounted then joined his men, all of whom were already awake. With the sky lightening to a blue, they rode north to engage the Scarvers, with Irons and his men in pursuit.

  It was nearly three hours before they finally came unto the edges of the Scarver camp, where two scouts quickly returned to their people to warn the chief of their arrival, and it wasn’t long until Chief Fullock rode out with his men to meet them on the battlefield.

  The Scarver clan was the smallest of the wasteland clans, but their warriors were fierce. The Scarvers had always boasted that one of their fighters was worth ten of any other men. The force behind Chief Fullock was at least two thousand strong.

  Dean spurred his horse and rode out to meet with Fullock by himself. He watched the chief depart from the pack of warriors and ride out alone, and the entire way across the battlefield, there was only one face that crossed his mind. He just hoped that he’d get to see it again.