Post by Christopher J. D'Dario on Jul 29, 2015 3:20:51 GMT
The soldier felt weak. He lay on his back in the shadow of Death given mechanized form. It was damaged, unmoving. Maybe he could fix it. Maybe once he fixed it he would be done and would be able to rest. The ferric hull loomed above, taller than him at full stretch and thicker than his arm, it curved away from him at an angle men of intelligence had deemed suited to deflecting the missiles of its foes. Bristling from the apex of the hull like arteries from a heart were belt-fed stub cannons that splattered fire and iron in a deafening beat. Deaths brothers and sisters surged forward around it, their own heart beats stilling those before them as they raced into a thickening cloud of dust and smoke.
Anyone could see that Death wanted to join them. Its deep, resonating cry followed its brothers and sisters as they become little more than shadows stalking away into obscurity, carried on great tracks that churned the earth they rolled over.
The soldier rose from his shallow trench and reached out his small, leather clad hand and flipped a latch that opened a small hatch in Deaths hull, previously hidden between two blackened smokestacks. Oil and steam spat angrily from the aperture and the soldier felt a pang of pained sympathy. He glanced at his gloved hand, the leather glistened with the mixture of dark fluids that kept both of them living. He touched the hastily bandaged wound in his side that sluggardly leaked precious fluids from his body onto the ground in a dribble of crimson. The ad hoc medico had done all he could with what limited supplies and training he had, and while he couldn't completely seal the wound, he had at least picked most of the shrapnel from it, slowed his blood loss and given him more than enough analgesics for him to continue the fight.
He inserted his head into the hatch and glanced about at Deaths heart. A wonderful amalgamation metals that fed on fire and water and gave death its power. In a glance he identified what ailed it. A connection seal had loosened and the cable-pipe was thrashing madly, spewing steam and bashing into other pipes and connections. The solider grappled with the loose artery, subduing it while he reached behind it for the valve that would cut off the steam to that pipe. With the steam loss staunched he reattached the pipe to its proper connection and began repairing the damage it has caused. He strengthen the connection seals with silvered binding tape and clasps and wiped away as much of the spoiled oil as he could with his burnt hands. The leather could do little to protect him from the heat of the steam.
Satisfied that he had mended Deaths heart as well as the medicos had mended him, the soldier opened the valve and pain flared as he was kicked back as Death jerked into motion. The muffled cheers of its crew were lost in the triumphant scream of its horn as it surged forward into the smoke and dust to join its brothers and sisters mighty beats.
The soldier felt weak. He lay on his back devoid of the comforting shadow of Death given mechanized form. His chest hurt from the hulls impact and his breath came in shallow. He heard a voice above him and looked up as a boot stomped the ground beside his head. The comforting, overlapping colors of slate and web gray caught his eye as a nameless friend knelt over him. The friends' words were dull and echoed away into the smoke, but the soldier gathered their meaning from the friends' expression. He nodded and took the offered hand to help lever himself up. His hand fell to his empty holster. The revolver that had lived there was gone, the almost full ammunition belt for it hung uselessly around his chest. The friend passed him a replacement revolver from his own holster and the soldier took it shakily and loaded it, then with a friendly pat from a leather gloves hand the friend hefted his carbine and strode into the smoke with the soldier on his heels.
They discovered a sanctuary in the form of a shallow trench containing more friends who welcomed them with hard faces and fearful eyes. A volley of phosphorus rounds punched into the small berm the diggers had risen and sprayed dirt over them. A gargled cry told the soldier that not all of the rounds had been harmless and the ensuing commotion told a tale of desperation and panic as friends tried to keep the precious crimson of another friend from staining the dirt.
The beat of Death echoed around them and its fiery voice lit the smoke. In those flashes the soldier could see the silhouettes of others running forward, crouched over and moving stealthily. The revolver in his hand came up and the sights aligned with the smoke where the largest silhouette had been. Those friends not fighting to extend the life of the wounded also brought their sights on the smoke. It was impossible to know who approached. The lines had been tangled for what felt like hours now and it was not unknown for friends to fire upon friends.
So they waited, and watched with fingers pressed to the triggers of machines designed to spit deadly fire and iron.
Without the flashes from the beating hearts of Death the silhouettes would be able to get within speaking range before they could be identified. They came out of the smoke, crouched and running quietly. Their colors obscured as they approached, their breath misting in the chilled air. Nervous fingers tightened on taunt triggers as friends contemplated the possibility of firing on friends or foes, uncertainty reigned. Closer they came, seemingly drawn by the panic stricken, muffled moaning and thrashing of the wounded. Seeking out the blooded like a hound. They raised their weapons, long, dark rifles and short barreled carbines as they neared, their own body language screaming of uncertainty. Close enough now to see their colors, close enough for them to distinguish the difference between berm and body and the weapons aimed at them. Close enough for all to discover the foe.
Fire erupted, iron spat and burrowed into flesh, spilling the precious crimson to a cacophony of pain and anger. The soldier pulled the trigger until his revolvers barrels were spent. The initial volley was over quickly and with no thought of reloading the sword and the bayonet was taken up in place of the revolver, the carbine and the long rifle. Bodies clashed as foes dropped into the trench and a piercing skirmish ensued. The soldier leapt onto the back of a foe, his bayonet slipping through teal fabric and flesh as a friend thrust upwards from below. The foe fell and was replaced by another who cleft the blade of his sword into helm of the soldiers friend. The friends' eyes rolled up as if seeking to look upon his killer before collapsing and dragging the sword from the foes hand. The soldier lunged at the foe as he scrambled for a replacement weapon, discovering only a grenade he made to pull the pin and release the spoon to arm the deadly device. His efforts were ceased as the soldier drove the blooded blade between ribs and lacerated vital organs. The grenade slipped to the ground, the spoon flung away and hissed as its fuse was lit. The solders shouted a warning and dove out of the trench before the fuse ignited its contents.
The soldier felt weak. He lay on his back listening to the heart beat of Death given mechanized form. Its fiery voice lit the smoke and in those flashes the soldier could see the silhouettes of others running forwards. He rolled and rose to his knees and glanced into the trench. His foes where still, their eyes unseeing and their hearts silent. So too where his friends. The soldier entered the trench and searched his friends for signs of life. Only one had survived, he lay wounded, propped up against the edge of the trench, a vicious would in his side filled with shrapnel from the grenade and the broken blade of a sword stuck in his helm. Desperately the soldier searched the cadavers for medical equipment and found a battlefield kit in a pack from their foes. The soldier opened it quickly and found a large set of tweezers. He picked shrapnel from the wound before applying gauze and bandaging it as best he could. The soldier felt a pang of pained sympathy and touched his own wounded side. He knew the pain his friend was experiencing and gave him most of the analgesics contained in the kit, keeping only a few for his own wound.
The friend lay still as the analgesics worked their way into his system and soothed the agony. A carbine lay close by and the soldier collected it along with the ammunition belt and gave it to the wounded friend, he searched for and found his revolver was set to march forward when the friend offered the carbine. The soldier shook his head and the friend insisted, mouthing what looked like the last words of a dying man. The weapon would be waisted if he left it, so he took the carbine and kneeled beside the wounded friend until his eyes slid closed.
The smoke was thickening and the soldier rose from the half-finished trench and marched into it. Ahead he heard the beating of Death and flashes lit the smoke with the triumphant scream of a horn. He saw a silhouette of a man fall backwards and sighted him with the carbine. As he approached he saw the reassuring colors of slate and web gray and knelt beside him. He tried to ask if he was okay, but even his own words sounded dull and echoed away into the smoke. The soldier helped the new friend up and noticed that he was missing a revolver. Without a word he pulled the revolver from his own holster and passed it to the friend to took it with shaky hands and loaded it. The soldier felt a little embarrassed that he had not reloaded the revolver after the trench fight and checked his carbine as he continued walking into the smoke, glad that the new friend was following.
Death beat its deep tattoo as they discovered a sanctuary in the form of another shallow trench containing more friends. They were welcomed with hard faces and fearful eyes before a volley of phosphorus rounds punched into the small berm the diggers had risen and sprayed dirt over them. The friend beside the soldier fell back with a gargled cry as a fiery yellow round bit into his throat. The soldier dropped his carbine and clamped his hand on the wound as he pulled out another bandage from the foes medical kit. He regretted giving so many analgesics to the dying friend in the last trench and used those he had taken for himself on this wounded friend. The beat of Deaths heart lit the smoke around them but all of the soldiers focus was on keeping this friend alive. He continued struggling to staunch the crimson fluids pupping from his friends' throat until the world was shattered. His friends opened fire and the soldier spun about, lifting his carbine with one hand while the other remained clammed on the friends wound. He fired awkwardly, the carbines ten round cylinder emptied quickly, each round spitting fire and iron from the barrel and blotting out the cacophony of pain and anger until the hammer hit an empty shell. Unable to reload one handed the bayonet was taken up in place of the carbine as the foes fell into the trench. A cry of frustration tore from the soldiers lips as he was forced to release his grip on his friends wound as the body of a foe crashed into him from above. A friend leapt onto the foes back and slipped a blade into him as the soldier drove his own upwards into the foes chest. Together they vanquished that foe and the soldier rose to seek another when a look of horror gripped his friends' features. A hard blow took the soldier to the head and photopsia spotted his vision as he fell backwards. Nausea took hold as the ground seems to drop out beneath him. Dimly he saw his friend wrestling with a foe, the slick blade of his bayonet stealing life before the friend shouted something and the world jumped.
The soldier felt weak. He lay on his back, propped up against the trench wall, flashes from the heart beat of Death given mechanized form strobed the smoke and dust. He took a breath in and whimpered, his leather gloved hand touched the wound in his side. It was reopened, the bandages shredded and fresh shrapnel embedded in his meat. All around him lay the bodies of friends and foes, their eyes staring accusatory at him. Why did he live while they did not? The pain of his wound redoubled as he inhaled and he found himself wishing he could trade places with them. A friend moved. Coming down the shallow trench and checking for life. He found it in the solider. The friend desperately searched the cadavers for a medical equipment and found a battlefield kit in a pack from their foes. The friend opened it quickly and produced a large set of tweezers that he used to pick the shrapnel from the wound before applying gauze and bandaging it. The soldier grit his teeth in pain and the friend touched his own bandaged side before pocketing a few analgesics from the kit and applying most them to the soldier.
He lay still as the analgesics soothed his agony. The friend lifted the soldiers' carbine from the dirt and passed it to him along with more ammunition before collecting his revolver. The soldier felt his heart struggling to continue beating and looked down at the carbine. It would be useless in the hands of a dead man and he offered the weapon to the friend. He had to offer it twice before the friend took it. The soldier tried to speak, to say something before his heart beat its last but he could not even hear his own words to know if they made sense. The friend seemed to understand though, and kneeled beside him for a moment before vanishing in the blink of an eye. The soldier felt a surge of panic. He has blinked and the friend was gone, there was no evidence of anything removing him from existence. He was just gone. The soldier lifted himself up and peered over the trench. Smoke and dust obscured all. He slipped back down into the trench and rested a moment as he tried to figure out how his friend had vanished. His thoughts were broken by the scream of Deaths horn. He glanced back over the berm of the trench and threw himself flat as the mighty tracks of Death crested the berm, almost crushing the soldier as it rolled over the trench. With a pained clank and a grinding of slowing gears Death came to a halt, it's hull shuddering from impacts as it splattered fire and iron back at its foes.
The soldier felt weak. He lay on his back in the shadow of Death given mechanized form. It was damaged, unmoving. Maybe he could fix it. Maybe once he fixed it he would be done and would be able to rest...
