by Rory Nelson
The smell reminds Wyker of burnt bacon while his stomach churns in disgust. He leaves his bucket seat and cover. Trying to keep low to the ground, Wyker presents himself as the smallest target.
For a professional like Pellot, the target is obvious. He waits behind a demolished car roof with an upturned seat. As Wyker emerges from the spot, Pellot fires, hitting Wyker’s shoulder. The bullet exits through his back. Cursing, Wyker runs toward his assailant rather than away from him, taking cover behind an upturned, splintered table.
Pellot fires several shots. He misses and cannot find where he is. Pellot fires another round and tries for another. He empties his gun and quickly reloads.
From high above, Triberian and Vincent circle the train like vultures who know their prey will expire at any moment.
The two riders give each other a signal. They nod. Vincent, riding the grey-turquoise ptero-hawk, dives while firing with his scatter rifle. He blows chunks of glass, metal and deadly flying shrapnel through the air.
Both men dart for cover. Wyker charges his foe. Diving into the cushions of another upturned chair, he removes a grenado and pulls the firing mechanism. His good hand tosses the weapon with precision.
Seconds later, the grenado explodes, creating a devastating fireball. Avoiding incineration, Vincent changes course, veering out of the way but only partially. The blast singes his ptero-hawk’s feathers and lights the rest as the flames burn through the animal. Her right-wing breaks from the force of the shock wave. She caws in desperation as she falls to the ground.
The pterho-hawk lands with a hard thud on the bridge. The extreme heat also has another fatal effect. Vincent’s saddlebag, which holds a few grenados, burns.
As the train enters the bridge where the explosion went off, the bridge teeters.
Wyker looks on with horror. He grabs and launches the last grenado. The weapon detonates and sends a fiery explosion. Crackling sounds of wood scream of breakage while cars rock sideways on the tracks. The slow domino affect increases.
An explosion detonates a few feet from Pellot, igniting and dismembering his appendages and incinerating vital organs. His gory body parts peppers one car’s corner to the other. He felt nothing, only the ensuing blackness.
After the final sniper expires, Wyker moves to the train’s front of the train. He grimaces sharply with every excruciating step.
(2)
Enshrouded in a thick cloud of smoke, Renault and Drake make their way to the front of the train. This proves treacherous with the train carnage throwing many roadblocks. After a few minutes, the smoke dissipates. Now, they see far enough to get their bearings.
As they make their way through the wreckage, they hear a scuttling noise behind them. They raise their revolvers and point them in the person’s direction. The man is wearing the Sene-Gaul’s uniform. His face is singed with soot, maybe from one of the train care explosions.
“Who goes there?” demands Renault. “Answer now before my gun answers for you in the back of your skull.”
“Wyker,” replies the man.
They sigh in relief and move to approach him. Drake clasps him around the shoulder with forearms outstretched. “Brother, you look like hell,” he says.
“I feel much worse,” answers Wyker.
Renault extends his arms for a brotherly hug and notices how he cringes with every step. He also observes the fair amount of blood on his left shoulder. “You’ve been hit,” says Renault.
“Ai.” He looks at them with sadness, his eyes casts downward.
“Where’s the rest of your men?” questions Renault, though in his heart he knows.
Wyker sighs. “Dead. Taintus, Seven. All dead. They knew we were coming. I didn’t expect to have lived for this long, but here I am. Ready to see this mission completed.”
Renault pats him on the shoulder. “You did well, brother, set watch and warrant it so. I assure you those that sold us out will have their comeuppance. It will be a devil cunt on their heels.”
“Let’s finish this,” states Wyker.
“Ai,” answers Renault. “But first, we need to get you stitched up. We need to stop that bleeding.”
Renault pulls open a buck knife which houses a hidden canister at the base. He unscrews the bottom of it and takes out a chew of dried Paleo bark extract. “Suck on this.”
Wyker takes it and puts it in his mouth. He scrunches his face and gags. “Jesus, that’s awful.”
“You can still shoot, right?” Renault asks.
“A scatter rifle may be a little difficult, but I’m still fast as hell with my right hand.”
Renault pours gun powder on the open wounds and lights it, eliciting Wyker’s yells. Like a skilled surgeon, he stitches the injury closed and applies a balm to it.
Two flares erupt in the air, high above the black smoke. The sign contrasts well against the backdrop of the smoke.
Renault smiles at Drake and Wyker. “They’re still alive.”
Less than a minute later, Renault and Drake meet up with the remaining brothers on a burnt-out car. The rest of the soldiers are dead, knocked from the train or still guarding Crixus.
Daliance, Kilroy, Coit and Ghange-Rhu all wear pained expressions. “Brothers, good to see you,” welcomes Renault. He scans around, noticing more of his brethren are missing. “Where’s Gellen and Penryn?”
“Lying in a bloody, heap several miles back. Just another couple of corpses making a good feast for the vultures,” answers Daliance.
“What the fuck happened?” asks Kilroy.
“What the fuck do you think happened?” questions Drake.
“Some of our brothers sold us out. They knew we were coming and were prepared for us. Which of us are not conveniently here to get shot and killed? Which of us so escaped with their lives and set us up?”
Daliance and his crew give each other a knowing look. “Fucking Whalen!” yells Kilroy.
“That traitorous cunt!” spews Wyker.
“Of course,” says Renault. “He’s played us all along. But we’re going to complete this mission. Then those of us still remaining will meet at the rendezvous point. Allow him to explain himself to us.”
Daliance and his men look at Renault as if he had lost his mind. “And then?” asks Daliance.
“Then we’re going to do something we should have done a long time ago. We’re going to put an end to Whalen and his cohorts for good.”
Ghange-Rhu brandishes his long buck knife. “Preferably as slow as possible. Lost a lot of good men here.”
Renault nods. “Agreed men?”
“Ai,” say the brethren.
“There’s a helluva lot of men guarding Crixus in the first car,” notes Daliance. “How do you suppose we get to him without all getting killed?”
“You still have those grappling supplies?” asks Renault.
Ghange-Rhu produces a large leather bag. “Still here.”
Renault smiles.
Chapter 18: One Last Obstacle
Captain Monaco and Lieutenant Donmonger cannot be reached. Besides, most likely Stanton was wounded, or worse, tossed from the train as dead. The next in command falls on Corporal Hensley
They look to him with accusing and expectant stares, expecting some kind of orders.
As they hear another bullet ricochet off the car’s side, Hensley points to one of the lowly privates.
The car holds Crixus in a makeshift cell. He is chained, and weary eyed.
Corporal Hensley looks accusingly at him. “This your doing, Crixus? You orchestrate this?”
Crixus shakes his head vehemently. “I know nothing. I swear.”
“Your men are out there attacking us!”
“Not by my orders.”
“I should throw you out on the tracks to your fucking death, you scuttlefuck!”
“Do it. See what it comes to then.”
“You’re in charge here!” yells Codmeier. “What are your orders? Are we to sit here waiting for our deaths or are you going to
do something?”
“You’re absolutely right, Codmeier. I am in charge. Thank you for volunteering. I command you to go out there and report back to me.”
Codmeier scrunches up his face as if the corporal had just put shit in his mouth. “The fuck I will. You go yourself and report back to us.”
Hensley pulls his revolver and aims it. “Do it,” he says through clenched teeth.
Not to go down without a fight, Codmeier pulls his gun and cocks the hammer. “As I stated, do it your fucking self. I’m not getting killed for that piece of shit. I’m not getting killed for you or anyone else.”
That’s when he feels the cold, hard steel of a revolver pressed against the back of his head.
“He’s in command,” Private Bruntle says. “You spoke out of turn, without respect.”
Private Monty points his revolver at Codmeier. “Cod, I think you should go.”
“Put down the gun, Codmeier!” orders Hensley.
Codmeier reluctantly obeys. He sighs heavily in frustration. He looks back at his fellow soldiers as if they had just raped his mother. “You fucking cunts!” He shakes his head disgust.
The men point their guns at him. “Go,” states Hensley.
Codmeier grunts in frustration. He slowly approaches the sliding metal partition.
“Hurry,” says Hensley. “Report back at tempest halt. Now!”
Codmeier grabs the handle and lock pin. With ease, he opens the partition while looking back at the men who have their guns drawn on him. He reaches around for a step hold. Someone grabs his hand and hurls him from the train as he cries out in surprise.
An instant later, a single bullet enters and exits Hensley’s brain. The blood splatters from the back of his skull in a gory mess.
The men fire their guns in retaliation. One man empties his gun and doesn’t realize it before it is too late. They look at each other with the same look of disbelief.
When they hear footsteps on the roof of their car, they fire at it until their revolvers are empty. Before they can reload, Daliance and Renault swing into the open cargo hull. They fire on them, hitting them in the neck, torsos, and guts. Blood splatters in a mess of dark crimson, shattered bone, exposed cartilage and gaping wounds.
Hensley chokes on his blood while reaching for his revolver. Daliance finishes him with a bullet to the head.
Daliance and Renault whistle for the rest of the brethren, who step down into the cargo hull. They look at the man in chains.
He looks at them timorously, unsure of their intent. “We’re not here to kill you, General. We’re here to save you. I pray to God you’re worth it,” says Renault.
Daliance digs through the corpses until he finds a large set of keys. He tries each lock one at a time. Finally, one opens Crixus’ shackles.
The men glare at Crixus menacingly, wondering if it was worth it, considering what they had lost.
“Your friends sure didn’t help matters, General. Too many of my brethren died here today,” says Ghange-Rhu.
Crixus shakes his head. “I swear to you it wasn’t by my doing. I never ordered it. They were here of their own accord.”
“Seems you’re a popular figure,” says Renault.
“Or an infamous one,” adds Daliance acidly.
“We need you to halt the attacks from your men,” says Renault.
“Consider it done,” says Crixus. The men walk outside to the tumult, now winding down.
(2)
Breinese Cole, the conductor, drives the train at full speed until he sees something. A Sandonista body and his ptero-hawk comes into view and heads straight for him with deadly intent.
In the bullet-riddled cab, Breinese takes two shots. One grazes his kneecap and the other penetrates his left shoulder. The blood seeps in small amounts. He grimaces with every small movement.
With the 26-car line now completely on the bridge, Breinese pulls back on the engine. He shifts the brake lever as fast as possible. The train lurches forward and screeches as the metal brakes pull back aggressively on the wheels.
Gwyneth tosses about by the sudden braking of the train. She grabs for her children as they are thrown from one side of their compartment to another. Luckily, a bag of grain cushions their fall.
Breinese picks up his pump rifle, a double-barreled 40-gauge death cannon and takes aim.
The first shot goes slightly to the left, about ten yards off. Breinese lacks accuracy, given his shoulder is injured with the distance he is shooting from. He rears up for another shot.
Though the shot was about twenty yards from Triberian, it was too close for comfort. He grabs his scatter rifle from his back holster and takes aim. He fires rapidly. The first few shots eat up a chunk of glass inside the driver’s seat. Breinese instinctively ducks down, but it is not enough when the next round of bullets blow through the cab. One massive slug penetrates through the glass. Heading straight into Breinese pelvis, emitting a splattering of crimson spurts and a gaping hole through his torso. He cries out in excruciating pain. Two more slugs enter his chest and neck, splattering more crimson spurts and nearly taking off his neck. Another round nearly disintegrates his entire head in a splashing of ocular fluid, brain matter, and gore. His body slumps in the chair and blackness mercifully envelops him.
Triberian dives and fires until he is sure his enemy is dead. As he nears the cabin, the carnage becomes clear and the threat obviously disabled. A piercing, impossibly high-pitched whistle breaks him from his task. As he looks around, he sees Crixus free of his bonds.
Crixus waves at him to put away his weapon. Triberian doesn’t hesitate. He puts it away and directs Siren, his pterho-hawk down to where Crixus is located. Triberian smiles for a brief moment, but the contentious glare he receives sends his smile packing.
Triberian dismounts his hawk aboard one of the burnt-out cars. He gets off slightly wobbly and disoriented as the train hasn’t come to a complete stop. He embraces Crixus, who hugs him fiercely.
“You’re free brother,” says Triberian.
He nods. “Ai. What are you doing here?”
“I would have brought more, but the Council didn’t approve your rescue.”
“So, you went rogue? Is that what you’re telling me? Look at how many of our men you got killed.”
“That your idea of a thank you is it?” asks Triberian with righteous indignation.
“I cry pardon brother. You’re right. I owe you everything. But you should have never went against the wishes of the Council.”
“I was supposed to let you die then?”
“If God wills it,” says Crixus.
“Well, I didn’t will it, set watch and warrant it. They would have crucified you.”
Renault and Drake step in front of them. “Look, there were a lot of needless deaths here today. Surely could have been prevented had we been working together. This was a mission of expediency. You owe your brother a debt of gratitude. That is a fact. He risked much to see you freed. But set watch and warrant it, they wouldn’t have gotten far if not for us.”
“Who sent you?” questions Crixus.
“Merlin. And don’t you ever forget that. You ken?” demands Renault.
“We lost a lot of men here today. Needlessly,” states Drake.
“And even more than we had to with your Tom Fuckery,” says Renault with disgust.
Crixus nods somberly. “I cry pardon for your losses, gentlemen. Tell him thankee. I swear it. When given the chance, I will repay that debt. A Sandonista always keeps his word. You ken?”
“So, I’ve heard,” responds Renault.
Crixus extends his hand out to Renault, who reluctantly takes it. He is ambivalent, but mostly angry. Angry so many of his men had to die. For what?
Crixus shakes the rest of the brethren’s hands with the exception of Daliance. He refuses to meet Crixus’ gaze or shake his hand. Triberian doesn’t bother to shake any of them, mostly in the matter of expediency.
Triberian mounts his ptero-hawk
and Crixus gets up himself.
“I have a feeling we’ll meet again,” says Crixus.
“I hope not,” answers Renault.
The men watch the ptero-hawk take flight and launch itself high into the sky, reaching great altitudes. It catches a downdraft and glides through the sky at a very rapid rate. In only a few minutes, it is completely out of view.
Unbeknown to the men, the bag holding the grenados burns hotter until the pins are almost completely incinerated. This opens the combustible mixture inside the deadly canister.
“Well, we completed our mission,” responds Renault stupidly, for lack of not finding anything more of worth to say.
“At what cost?” asks Daliance.
Renault shrugs. “I don’t know. It will be clear to us one day, set watch and warrant it.”
“That’s not good enough,” says Wyker. “I watched personally as many of my brethren died today. Horrifically. To what purpose? What fucking reason is there?”
“We’ll know in time,” says Renault.
“Wait and see isn’t good enough,” says Ghange-Rhu. “I want answers!”
“I don’t have the answers,” says Renault. “I wish I did. Perhaps I would sleep better.”
“This is bullshit!” adds Daliance.
“Brothers today was a tragedy, but you know Merlin has never steered us wrong before. Are you all forgetting who fucked us over? Do I need to remind you of the person responsible for this needless tragedy?” questions Drake.
“Whalen,” answers Wyker.
“Ai,” responds Renault. “That traitorous fuck!”
“Would have been rather convenient if our illustrious leader had the premonition to warn us of his betrayal. You ken? I mean he does have premonitions, right?” asks Daliance scornfully.
“They’re only so far reaching,” defends Renault.
Daliance inches nearer to Renault in a dare. “You’ve always hated him. You ken? You enjoy killing. It’s your specialty. You’ve always suspected him. Why didn’t you put an end to him when you had the chance?”
“I wish I had, brother. Set watch and warrant it, it’s a serious regret in my life. One I’ll never be able to live down.” He stops himself just short of mentioning it was Merlin who ordered him not to kill Whalen. It would only alienate himself further and cause them to be more mistrustful of Merlin.