Vignettes

Breathing was the key - slow, steady breaths. The rifle level. The aim true. He remembered his mother's words - to ignore the discomfort, the cramp. Block out the sensation of cold, creeping cramp.

A movement would reveal you. And you didn;t want to be noticed until it was too late for your quarry.

In and out. Slow and steady. Eye trained on the same, narrow spot. And you picked a vantage before-hand - a place you knew they'd come, that was a thoroughfare for whatever it was you chose to hunt. With deer, it was a crazing spot. Rabbits, near their burrows. Wolves, a freshly laid haunch of meat.

For these things it was the same path through the forest he'd staked out for four days. The never diverged,

Slow and steady, he watched as a man in a suit, flanked by four of the grey-monkeys rounded the corner of the path, from behind the curve of the hill. Between this long gap in the thick trees, he had his one, perfect moment.

The rifle bucked slightly as he eased pressure on the trigger.

600 yards away, the man-that-was-not-a-man reeled backwards as its head exploded in a distant puff of blue-green gore and smoke. The grey-monkey's screeched and scattered. Another round hit home and one of the monsters tumbled away, sliding down the scree of the hill. Another shot and another fell.

He frowned as the creatures began firing in his direction - they were good at identifying the source of shots then. With a sigh, he shuffled backwards, down from his firing pint, sliding over leaf-litter and soil, safely obscured by the ridge of the hill he was on. The creature's were on the other side of a valley, so there was little chance of them gaining ground on him. But caution was still advisable.

Quickly, he slipped the rifle and it's extended telescopic sight into a leather sack, which he slung over his back, then picked up his Winchester repeater. From the small pack nearby he popped the Stetson onto his head, then lifted the satchel onto a shoulder. Nearby, his horse grazed and he quickly untied the reigns and clambered onto its back. A swift squeeze to its haunches and he set off at a trot down through the trees, heading back to the nearby fort. The Captain'd want to know how far along the varmints were getting, seeing as they were now pushing out of the more built up areas. And last reports they'd had, Boston was still fighting hard.

Thank the lord there'd still been no more sight of the damnable Tripods. They seemed content to just keep people penned in the cities

He glanced up and sighed as he saw, far in the distance, the rising smoke from the east., then spurred his horse into a near gallop as they hit the dirt track to the small outpost.

The light was fading, but he was damned if he wasn't going to fight for every inch the bastards tried to take.

Something moved in the underbrush nearby, a faint chattering noise. He glanced over, twitching. Something burst from the ground, all claws and orange eyes. The horse reared and screamed as something sliced it near in half. He hit the ground hard and swore as the wind was near knocked out of him. Through blurry eyes he saw something with far too many legs looming over the corpse of his horse. He didn't think he just fired, cranking the lever on his winchester, forcing the creature back. The chamber clicked empty and he yanked the revolver from his belt and emptied that until the creature stopped twitching.

The sound of hisses from the trees made his blood run cold. He looked over his shoulder - the fort was at the bottom of the hill, maybe another mile.

"Well damn. D'ya want to live forever?"

Unhooked a flare from his belt and lit it, raising it above his head. As it caught and launched, something exploded out of the soil next to him. Blood splattered the trees and birds took flight. Silence fell as the flare exploded, high in the sky. And, down in the valley, an alarm bell began to ring.

You learned to survive here, in the jungle. Or what was left of it. To avoid the whip of the Colonials and the claw of the Lion and the Leopard, you did what you had to. You either farmed rubber, waited their tables or just kept your head down. The forests of the Congo could hide much, for those who knew them, but were deadly in many other ways. The city was safe, if one knew how to act.

Or that was how it had been, until that silent killer had ignited most of Boma. The Europeans had fled, or tried to, but the ships in the port had been burned.

Strange creatures had captured and hauled away many. At first, Bakome had thought these people some sort of liberators, or at worst maybe some other European power looking to capture the port. Such things were not unheard of, as he had read, surreptitiously, the reports of South Africa (A name he still found strange and oddly presumptive)

But that hope had been dashed when a burly creature had snapped a poor fellow rubber-farmer over its knee, like an unwanted piece of kindling. And only because he had tried to approach!

Bakome had gathered his friends and they had fled the city into the jungle, along a mining path. The sky had burned brightly for three days as the city was laid to waste. The creatures had then begun to expand into the forests, sending what seemed to be squid, but silvery and ethereal, to drag people away.

So, he and other men had gathered together and formed a plan.

Out here, the Europeans had assumed them to be docile. The brutality of the farm overseers had kept many of them cowed. But they had planned and learned - gathering fertiliser and stashing pieces of contraband. Some of the families from the coast had kept their traditional keepsakes - old weapons and tools. And they had plans to free their fellows still trapped in the city.

So, a few days later, Bakome and a small group of men crept back to the city limits and laid their trap: several pots, filled with fertiliser and fuses, were set up at the edge of a warehouse. Another group of men were spreading oil pots around the town, ready for the fight back.

Many men carried the large bronze knives of their ancestors, whilst Bakome had a looted pistol and a tribal sword - it looked like a cross between an axe and a dagger, or a thin anchor. But it was sharp and hefty.

Now, they waited and watched as a patrol of the creatures made another check of the buildings.

The first step went well. Kabi, a young man from the plantations, led the charge, dropping from an overhanging balcony. He landed on a grey-creature and stabbed it in its bulbous head, roaring as he did so. Lufua and Motondo opened fire with their rifles, seized from dead Dutch sailors days ago, felling another two creatures.

The ground shook as the ambush had its intended effect - a Tripod lumbered towards their location, trying to draw a bead on them. The men disengaged and fled into buildings and alleyways. The machine lumbered towards them, firing the heat ray into the tree line. The trees exploded, raining brak and hot sap over the road and spreading firey sparks deeper into the jungle. Bakome had ordered the men to spread out but he could hear shrieks of pain as some unlucky souls were caught by the blast. He gritted his teeth but pressed on, following another group into the warren of streets - they knew there'd be losses. As long as they could save some, though.

The machine moved, searching for new targets. Bakome met with Kabi by the corner of a street. They watched the Tripod, now ahead of them, as they had looped around behind it. Nearby lay the fuse they had lain the night before. A flash of flint and it fizzed to life. The men held their breath as they counted down. There was silence.

And then the warehouse ahead exploded as oil and fertiliser erupted in a gigantic fireball. The men fell backwards as a wave of heat washed over them, the sonic boom of the explosion echoing across the town. Ahead, the tripod stumbled, reeling from the blast. One of its legs was twisted and mangled, and sparks flew from ruptures in its hood. The machine reared up and let out a bellowing hoot of alarm. UUlllAAlAA

The men cheered as the machine dragged itself backwards. A few dashed into the street and fired blindly at it. But their cheers turned to shouts of alarm as the metal monster turned and bathed the street in indiscriminate fire from the heat ray. Kiba and Bakome ducked back into the alley. Bakome nodded and pointed to the town centre.

"Go, free the others from the pens."

Kiba nodded and headed off, men in tow. Bakome turned and grimaced, then pulled the pistol from his belt. If Kiba and the others were to succeed, he needed to do more than just cripple the machine - they needed to draw more patrols this way.

He dashed across the street, ducking into another alleyway. He spotted a grey-creature, clearly responding to the distress of the walker. More were clambering over rooftops. He fired the pistol at it but missed, then dove down another dusty alleyway, hearing the shriek of alarm behind him, followed by the sounds of pursuit. Each turn and street, he fired at another collection of monsters, drawing them into a chase through the cluttered and burnt out wreckage of the town. Green blasts of heat flew over and around him as he ducked through the rubble. But he'd been a street child when the Europeans had broken his country - he'd learned to dodge pursuers and cut the purses of the colonisers and, as he;d been forced into more "respectable" work, he'd known the back ways of the city to help his family and friends.

Up until he lurched into a street and found himself face to face with the Tripod. The machine loomed above him, funnel focused directly on him. He turned and saw a motley collection of creatures scuttling over rubble and from wrecked buildings. Grey-monkeys, Not-Europeans and the hulking brutes that had easily broken the tin-soldiers of the Colonisers. Above, there was the his of heated air as three floating horrors came into view, their gurgling laughs audible over the burn of their engines.

Bakome looked at the pistol in his hand, then up at the Tripod. Movement behind it caught his eye and he saw Kiba, ushering a crowd of people, just visible, down an alleyway. The man looked at him, but Bakome shook his head.

He turned and pulled the blade from his belt and levelled it at the aliens behind him, then turned back to the machine. It seemed to be regarding him, weighing him. A glance around the street brought a smile to his face. He turned, fast, and fired. The shot missed the nearest hulking brute.

But it hit a flask of oil, the spark of the ricocheting bullet igniting the oil that was inside the sealed pot. Which in turn set light to the oil that covered the whole street.

The creatures around panicked as the world went up in flame. Bakome turned and sprinted forwards - the Tripod reared up, as if reflexively and time seemed to slow - the machine was trying to aim the funnel, the ray-of-death. He leapt forwards and slid across dry, dusty ground, underneath the metal machine, then scrambled to his feet and sprinted behind it, cutting down the alley where Kiba had been.

Behind him, another cache of explosives caught and an explosion rocked the stumbled across another street and found himself back at the edge of town. He practically threw himself into the trees, where arms grabbed him and pulled him into cover, back into the welcoming embrace of the jungle.

Vladislav Popov surveyed the open ground and sighed. The mist had come in and the frost had settled hard this morning, making the soil like concrete. Somewhere, across that open space, lay their enemy. An enemy that was currently laying siege across an unimaginable from and able to relocate faster than even their best cavalry.

He watched an entire infantry regiment obliterated by a single barrage from their artillery. And then, a day later, they watched those same men get back up and attack them.

Which was why pyres now burned all across the fields.

He hoped that a sudden push would clear the way, or at least buy the artillery time to destroy the enemy war machines.

He turned and approached his horse, held by a quavering young man. He looked more a boy, barely into his teens. Vladislav spared him a nod, "Ready, boy?"

"Yes, sir. For the Tsar!"

Vladislav grunted, doubtful the man would even care. He was not Cossack, not part of the konvoi who protected the Royal personage, but he had met the Tsar - a likeable man, but not one taken by individual discomfort of the people. He mounted and drew his sword. Alongside him, several men in cherkessk and fleece hats rode along the line, Infantry of the Imperial Russian Army checked their weapons and murmured.

He rode out in front of them, "Gentlemen. You know your roles, know what has been asked of you. We meet the foe, like we met the British in Crimea. We will force them back, we will make them pay in blood for insulting our land, for harming our people. We will not all survive this, but we men of Russia do not back down. Are you going to let them take this land?"

"No, Polkovnik!"

"Are you going to let them win?"

"NO, Polkovnik!"

"Are you going to let them kill you?"

"NO POLKOVNIK!"

"Then to arms!"

He wheeled his horse around, and levelled his sword, spurring the horse into a gallop. Behind him, the cavalry began their charge, hoofbeats of a thousand horsemen shaking the ground as the plunged across the open field. The morning sunlight began to split the mist as as a sound rolled across the cold tundra. The infantry, breaking into rumbling song, keeping time as they began to march. Behind them, the Artillery spotters peered, waiting for the first signs.

As the sound of five thousand men, voices raised in song, washed across the ground, Vladislav caught his first glimpse of the foe.

Looming through the gloom was the brass-glint of a tripod. The machine lumbered forward, a titan amidst the ants. Heat washed through the air, splitting the mist and raising steam above the field. Screams pierced the air, followed by the acrid stench of burnt flesh. The song faltered, then rose again, interrupted by a boom as the first shells were send forth. Ahead, the soil burst as they shots landed short. Some men and horses ahead went down, blown apart by friendly fire, or caught off guard by the craters. A Dozen more vanished in flame as the invisible ray swept across the ground.

Another machine, and another loomed out of the fog, lances of heat spearing the ground. Vlasilav screamed a warcry and spurred his horse onward, adrenaline pumping.

The song rose and a machine rocked as twelve shells blasted around it - some turning the soil at is feet to mud, others rocking it with airburst. One shell blasted against armour causing the machine to stumble. But still it stood.

One of the other machines settled into a sort of squat and plates slid back along its back. A flurry of rockets blasted up and into the air, soaring back over Vladislav's head, vanishing back into the mist behind him. He glanced back and saw fiery blossoms in the mist, and the song dipped faintly. The return fire of artillery also lessened.

He turned back, now only three hundred yards from the metal monsters.. And suddenly he was in a melee.

He crashed into a line of enemy infantry; men-that-were-not-men, scuttling little horrors and hulking beasts as tall as he was, even on horseback. The sight didn't phase him and he laid about him with his sabre, raising green and yellow spurts of gore as he force his horse onwards. Around him, the cavalry that had made the initial charge were sowing as much chaos as they could.

Above, the tripod strode, ignoring the people blow. Great metal feet crunched against the frozen soil, shaking the ground.

A green monster roared defiance and smashed the butt of its rifle against the flank of Vladislav's horse. The beast whinnied and fell, forcing him to roll clear. He rose and glared at the monster. Around him men and monster fought and fell. The beast in front of him stood tall and beat its chest. Vladislav raised his sword and he watched as the creature threw its rifle to one side. It drew a long, serrated knife from a belt and lunged forward.

Vladislav dodged to the side, then thrust, eliciting a spurt of yellow from a slice to the creature's face - he knew his blade would not pierce that armour.

The monster reeled away and chuckled. It spread its arms and roared, then came at him with an over head slice. He managed to get his blade up as the impact send a shockwave down his arm and he found himself forced to the ground. The beast was only holding the blade with one hand and its free arm came up and clamped around Vladislav's throat. He was lifted, bodily off of the ground and the creature gave another guttural chuckle.

The world began to go purple and black at the edges of his vision and he felt the sword drop from his hands as his grip faltered. For a moment his mind was suddenly utterly clear and he felt the prick of a blade being pressed to his stomach - the creature was going to gut him.

He acted reflexively, hand pulling the pistol from the holster at his belt. He leveled it just as the blade sank in and fired, point blank, into the creature's eye. It bellowed and he fell, painfully, to the ground.

The world swam and he looked around. Far off, the tripods continued to advance, yellow fires lost in the mist. One of the horrors reeled and burst in flames as the artillery finally struck true - but the other two continued on.

Around him, the infantry had managed to break through and were fighting tooth and nail. He couldn't tell if it was doing any good, as mud mingled with blood. He sank back against the carcass of his horse and looked down at his wound. He grimaced - a deep gut wound. Well, if he was to die….

One hand clamped over the wound, Vladislav rose to his feet.

"Men of the Motherland! To me! Let us make them bleed!"

Around him, infantry and cavalry wheeled and rallied to his cry. With a roar of defiance, they plunged forwards, to meet the foe as above, floating horrors descended and all around, grey-and green monsters closed in.