Author message (30/11/2014):
Hey readers, just a quick survey. As you are probably not aware, most of the reason why I'm writing this is as practice; I figured letting people tear my writing to shreds in public was somehow the best way to do so. Anyway, I'd like to know what people think; if there's a chapter or section that puts you off, let me know which one and why. If you don't want to leave a review, just PM me or something. Apologies if this seems a little incoherent; it's kind of 3am where I am.
Anyway, on with the story:
WALES
March 19, 2006
The sound of dying soldiers filled the air. Volley after volley of artillery fire rained down – along with actual rain – on the final, pitiful, defensive line the British soldiers had set up. Entire lengths of trenches were wiped out in an instant; the only thing keeping the line reasonably intact was that most of the trenches and bunkers weren't occupied.
A company of American tanks rolled in after the artillery, firing on the move to suppress what little defensive fire could be mustered. Behind them poured an entire division of infantry, reservist National Guard who had been called up in the latest round of sermons from the American Patrician.
A pair of British tanks held the line, hull-down in concealed positions. True to tradition, their crews fired round after round of precisely-aimed armour-piercing ammunition, knocking out several of the American Abrams tanks before one of the omnipresent American planes carpeted the entire grid square they were in with cluster munitions.
Less than a mile away, a six-year-old boy lay, nearly dead. A pair of medics were rushing him to a huge hangar bay, where the nominal commander of the defenders was arguing with a man in a lab coat.
"I came here because you said you had a weapon that could save us!" shouted the army officer. "Here I am, and you have a half-finished... thing and a dying child!"
"It will work," said the other man, calmly. "It's finished enough to move, and he only has to survive long enough for us to put him into it."
The officer relaxed, and let out a breath. "Do whatever you wish. I'm going to see if I can scrounge up enough soldiers to man one last defence. Get that thing working; you've borrowed three days from my men and I don't have enough left to get you another hour. Your life depends on this," he said. He looked at the boy, briefly. "Poor kid," he said, walking out of the hangar, "it'd probably be more merciful just to let him die here..."
The boy woke to a strange metal tube, wires running from his body into the chair he sat on. He was dimly aware of the tube filling up with some sort of liquid, but between his injuries and the drugs the medics had given him he wasn't entirely sure what was real any more. Voices seemed to float from nowhere – was that a radio, or was he hearing things as he died? He tried to focus, and only succeeded in making himself throw up. The liquid had reached his mouth, and the blood that had been pooling in there since he woke up was displaced by... more blood? The liquid – whatever it was – seemed a lot easier to breathe than air at the moment. Was he being treated in a hospital?
The walls of the tube suddenly burst into colour, and a spike of pain drove itself into the boy's head. Somehow, it managed to hurt even more than the bullets had, like some part of his mind and soul was being torn from the rest of him...
He noticed he was now outside, rain dripping from one of his arms. He seemed to be in a model town or something – all of the buildings looked tiny. He vaguely remembered a book about a man who found himself on an island filled with miniature people, and wondered if he'd managed to enter a book. He saw a tank, far below him on the ground. It seemed to be moving; he figured he must be dreaming. The day he'd read that book someone – who? - had pointed out all of the reasons why people were people-sized, and how people the size of dolls couldn't exist.
His thoughts were broken by a blow from above.
He felt blood trickle into his eye, and pain, and rage-
"Holy SHIT!" screamed one of the officers. "THE FUCK IS THAT THING?"
The gigantic humanoid thing ran – RAN – through the American front line, scattering tanks like children's toys. One of the army's chaplains knelt, hands knotted together, whispering a frantic prayer.
"Please, lord, forgive us in this hour, spare us the wrath of-"
"It's still three miles out! Get the arty and the flyboys to pound it back into the dirt!"
"Warthogs and the Spooky are responding. The arty..."
An explosion lit up the sky.
"...We just lost contact with the artillery, sir."
"What? HOW?"
The boy reached out with his mind, and laughed as an entire flank of the enemy disappeared into the orange glow. Shells flew at him, only to hit the orange field. One of the American aircraft, an ungainly beast, flew too close. He lashed out with his hand, and swatted it out of the sky.
Tears streaming down his face, his mouth stretched into an insane laugh, the boy continued his rampage.
"That thing's done more damage to us in two and a half minutes than the entire British military has done before now." The General rested his head in his hands. He knew what the price would be for this failure, even if he escaped. "Have they authorised the nuclear strike?"
One of the colonels, radio held to his ear, shook his head.
"Call the retreat."
"WHERE. DO. YOU. THINK. YOU. ARE. GOING?!" The laugh/scream rang out across the battlefield, through the rain-soaked hills of Wales. The fleeing elements of the American expeditionary force tried to speed up in response, risking everything just for a slightly larger gap between them and the rampaging beast behind them.
The boy let out one final scream, liquefying every living thing in a two-mile radius, and collapsed, empty.
Note: So, this is the second pass on this chapter. Mostly just making it not as shit as it was before (I might re-upload the original as an extra at the end of the story, just so people can see how bad it was).
