Chapter Two
Warning: Next few chapters will deal with war and PTSD. If you are triggered by such things, read no further.
Well, no one ran me off or threatened me for dabbling in this world, so apparently I'm still welcome :D
This whole concept started out with a short little outline. Should have taken no more than 4-5 pages. But, I'm long winded and tend to ramble and add layers and layers, and now I have an outline for at least 10 chapters… (head thunk) Might even go for more, who knows? As long as y'all wanna read, (and don't boot me from the genre) I'll keep indulging my muse. :D
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There was no training. No slow introduction to war. No softness of voice. No silence. No beauty. No peace.
There was noise. Loud, booming, never ending, soul crushing noise.
And pain. So much pain. And sorrow. Screams and blood. Oh God. So much blood! It stained the ground all around.
Goodnight lay in the mud, the rains steady since dawn. The battlefield was grey, veiled by shadows and ghosts darting between black skeletal trees. It was difficult to differentiate between the battling armies, their uniforms becoming nearly identical in the rain.
A week ago he had said goodbye to his finance and endured a three day trek across unforgiving land and unstable elements to find himself in a regiment of chaos. A mismatch of soldiers, many of whom barely adults, thrown to the front lines to provide distraction.
Goodnight wiped the cold tears of the sky from his face. They hid his own burning tears as he reloaded, heart pounding a taboo against his ribs.
He had never been so scared in his life!
And yet, so... invigorated!
In the beginning, he wanted to run and hide, but after the first firing of his weapons, it had become a fire in his veins. He didn't need the order to charge. Something had ignited in his spirit. An unknown, unnamable thirst drove the Cajun.
The smell of gunpowder, the sharp report of the rifle or pistol, the heady, carefree, invincible rush he felt from seeing a blue jacket in his sights. No mercy. No forgiveness. No restriction. If they wore the wrong coat, he had authorization to eliminate them, no hesitation. He rained down death and retribution to the tribal beat of his heart.
Bodies decorated the field, many already passed into the next life. A few blood dappled grey jackets groaned or gurgled, their death throes adding to the symphony of battle. Shrill cries, bullets screaming by, the world was turning upside down and inside out. Booms and colors exploding, the ground shaking, bones rattling, a staccato of shouts as enemies clashed and warred ferociously within the pale grey veil, and Goodnight Robicheaux was a man possessed.
He grinned through gritted teeth, took a deep steadying breath, and rose up from the ridge on which he had been hiding while reloading his rifle. Through the veil he picked out blue phantoms. His finger twitched. The rifle barked. The enemy fell to the ground.
The next went down missing a portion of his head. A tide of blue appeared through the mist. Fire belched from their weapons, but Goodnight did not back down. He caressed the trigger, lovingly holding his rifle and coaxing death from its throat.
The mist bloomed in flashes of red in a sea of dark colors. Coats became black under the weight of the rain.
Goodnight dropped down, grasping bullets from the only remaining ammo can. There were only a few bullets left. He was secretly glad he didn't have to share the precious commodity. Though he fought valiantly by the side of his fellow soldiers, most of them were lousy shots and weak willed, hence why they lay slumped around Goodnight. Two were still breathing, moaning a chorus as they flopped uselessly in the muck and mire.
Served them right in Goodnight's opinion. Their cowardice had cost the lives of several of their men. Only fitting they receive injury for their cowardice. Course, they'd probably claim valiance to preserve their reputation.
Yellow bellied weaklings!
They were a disgrace to the coat. To their fellow soldiers. Their commanders. To their families.
They deserved a coward's fate.
Goodnight sneered at them.
"Lot of help you are!" he growled, reloaded and reinvigorated. He rose, barely taking aim before squeezing the trigger.
A distant horn sounded. There came the pounding of hooves. The stampede of soldier feet, drumming over the countryside. The noise rose as a grand crescendo, drowning out the murmur of blue soldiers now vastly outnumbered. With so many fast moving pieces across the field, Goodnight lowered his rifle and watched with pride as grey suited soldiers mowed down the enemy as ripen grain for the harvest.
It took less than ten minutes for victory to be declared. There were no more surviving blue coats. The battle had been won.
The heavy veil granted victory to the grey coats.
They won. The enemy was defeated.
Goodnight rolled to his back, staring up at the pearly heavens continuing to cry.
He smiled.
An early evening owl serenaded the victors.
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Chapters are going to get longer and more in depth.
Still want me to continue?