Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Garfield or Calvin and Hobbes. They are owned by Jim Davis and Bill Watterson, respectfully. I do however, own Dilger, Captain Miller and his Grays, and everyone else.
Gripping the edge of the map table tightly with the palms of his hands, Garfield stared restlessly at the colorful etches on the smooth, plastic covered surface. Drawn in red along the southern border of Muncie, those were his entrenchments to stave off the growing amount of forces of dogs and humans, a informal alliance of sorts to kill him. They were mainly his survivors from the Indianapolis campaign, now being rebuilt and reinforced by new replacements and equipment. Along the east and west, more forces were being built to complete the barrier. Entrenchments miles along, back by forts, batteries, trenches, entanglements, and roads were being made by the hands of slave laborers, prisoners, and unwanted. To the north, there was nothing but green tokens and this made Garfield edgy. Those were his units per say. Partisan units. Rag tag renegade units that swore an oath of loyalty to him, but did what they pleased. One of the growing stars of the bunch was a so called Captain Percy. A gray Russian by birth, Percy was raised in Ohio was a loving family until the revolution called. Feeling a sense of loyalty to his own kind before family, Percy left his mountain home and joined a pack of strays and domesticates as they marched towards Muncie to join up with Garfield. Crossing over the border, they ran into a group of partisan dogs at a place called Rainbow bridge, a mere trickle spanned by a flimsy stone bridge. A fierce fire fight erupted as the cats attempted to ford across and Percy's leader, Tomahawk, was killed. Taking the helm as leader, Percy inspired his followers by bounding ahead, reaching the far bank and driving off his adversaries almost single handedly. He was then promoted as leader of the pack with rank of Captain. Unable to link up in time for the Indianapolis campaign, Percy instead voted to have his company turn into a partisan band to raid and harass the enemy. According to him, "it would be of better use as a strategic measure to destroy the enemies supply depots and interdictions than attack his earthworks."
Sounds reasonable, but it would soon be learned that the captain was fueled by the lust of combat, hit and run tactics, and feeling of death in his hands.
Garfield learned of this band when reports came in, how their glorious charges against superior enemy numbers won them infamy in defeating "armies". But, the truth was far away. Percy was timid creature, whom shied away from going into actual combat, one on one, hand to hand. Instead, he preferred surprise hit and runs and ambushes against weak forces, including unarmed civilians. In one such case, he over ran a group of civilians fleeing for their lives from Cincinnati. After killed all but two, he impressed them into service and forced them to serve as operators with two SUVs. With speed and a cleaver disguise under his belt now in pursuing their helpless prey.
Knowing that he needed scouts and raiders, Garfield, but was livid over the harsh treatment and unpredictability of Percy's bunch, Garfield at last decided to have Percy commissioned into his army to which Percy refused, stating that he did not need to be weighed down by regulations, but he swore an oath of loyalty to his leader and vowed to offer captured supplies and information to his cause.
Issuing out an order the day following G.R.O.S.S destruction, Garfield called out to Percy to hunt down and destroy the band that had routed Rats' command. "Do whatever is necessary to track them down, engage, and destroy this group. Bring me their weapons and the head of their leader."
Arriving by courier, Percy read this order with some degree of resentment and delight. Placed before him was a change to gain glory for himself by defeating an enemy force that has caused great embarrassment to the line of felines. If he was to, and knew he will, capture and kill the leader, imagine the attention that could be gained. Females would flock just to gaze at his very presence. Fan mail, pictures, parties, oh the glory in it all. Savoring the relish, Percy turned his party that were at bivouac well north of Muncie in the Black Forest, a forty acres piece of federal land so dense that it appeared to be nothing but one solid continuing tree truck. They were nearly forty miles from the site of G.R.O.S.S down fall, he would have to move now. Camp was broken, gear crammed inside the SUVs and the drivers had them moving south west into the inky darkness.
Moving along at a steady pace, tripping and falling over moist green grass, rock strewn fields, cultivated farm lands and steep hills Miller's Grays were making good head time. In the vanguard was a single scout, well ahead of the main body. Miller was in the rear of the long column, slapping the back sides of those lagging behind with the butt of his rifle. They were tired, as was he, but they needed to find a better place to hunker down for the night. Where they were right now, a large depression, surrounded by all sides by flat fields, completely unsuitable to make camp, light fires and cook a good meal. Didn't matter much any way for many had empty haversacks.
Time had failed to be with them on this night. Many dead enemy soldiers had their pouches full of meat and drink, waiting to be plucked and devoured. However, before the Grays could do so, Miller ordered them to fall in and get moving. Only the bodies in their path could be stripped .
Sean and his comrades followed along as close as possible. Stomachs were empty and aching, throats dried and sore from parched thirst. Every step they took caused great shooting pain to go from their heels all up their spines. One field after another was passed. Houses were empty and burned. No one was around. A few smoldering remains of cars and houses were found as well, that was it. Trudging along with only the moon light as a guide, the group was silent with only the steady tromp of their feet on the soil.
Roads and river ways had to be avoided at all cost for fear of encountering an enemy patrol. Sergeant Dickenson, was one of the few wounded, hit in the ribs by a small caliber bullet during the counter attack, and he was still able to keep moving using his rifle as a crutch tucked under his right arm. Every intake of breath caused his ribs to hurt. No medicine was available and no time as well to properly dress his wound. Had to keep moving. Despite his pain, Dickenson managed to keep pace, never falling back enough to feel the end of Miller's rifle.
In each of their minds, they wondered if there were others just like them roving about trying to find one another. If he could, Miller could forge a larger force and stood a better chance in defending themselves against those damn cats. That poor scout up front was running a gauntlet of fear. Each hill he went over he would seize up for just a moment, thinking that a shadow would be a enemy soldier with a rifle in hand pointing right at him. Sigh, just a tree stump, a clever one at that. Summing up his courage once more, he went over the next hill, and then another and another.
Choosing to avoid that said encounter for fear of costly delays, Miller kept his pack inside dense woods or behind hills to block a ease droppers vision. His goal was to find a regular unit in which to attach to, but after their encounter at Fort G.R.O.S.S, the decision was changed to back track and head north .
As Garfield looked over his map of growing defenses, an aide reluctantly came up, "sir," lightly.
"What is it?" he growled, tightening his grip on the desk.
"Sir, General Rats had destroyed the enemy fort, but a enemy counterattack forced him to withdrawal back towards town"
Sighing greatly, Garfield dropped his head. It was news that he had learned long ago, but it still hurt like an arrow through the heart. It was fresh open wound ready for salt to be added. What else did this aide have to add. Did Rats somehow become separated, surrounded, and surrendered to those dogs? Steam was shooting out of his ears, even more than when he ate a pan of fresh lasagna, hot from the oven, pan included, Garifled looked up at his aide, waiting anxiously for his response. "Well, what is it?" he asked.
"Well…um…at least this general completed it's original goal. The fort was gone." rather lame way in trying to sweeten up another embarrassment. "
Any prisoners?" he asked.
"Yes, several. They are expectant to arrive later this day" the aide smiled.
There was nothing to smile at. Bouncing around in a flatbed truck, Calvin and several others under his command were forced to endure a kidney busting ride after being herded onboard. Two guards watched over them at the tail gate and upon their arrival at a security building, they were forced out and lined up for inspection. The oldest were separated from the young, and the officers from their followers. From there, they were forced inside the building into separate cells. What was once the county jail now served for political and high ranking prisoners of war. Conditions here left something to be desired. The rooms were small in comparison, there was little light, save from a single naked under powered light bulb. Walls were moist from the humidity and there was a considerable lack of air conditioning for the prisoners, but the guards were flourishing with it outside in separate rooms. Food was also harsh. Instead of being given bread and water, by command of Garfield, each person was given a cup of spoiled soup containing rotten chicken, broth, and some small strips of vegetables. The smell alone was enough to make a man sick, but when one was hungry enough, it was a cuisine. After being pushed into his stall, Calvin became well acquainted with his surroundings. There was a small toilet, a metal sink that had running water, a flimsy bed with a soiled mattress, that was it. No windows, no air vent, and the iron door that confined him in had it's view hole and tray feed sealed up.
"What a way to go" mumbling to himself as he sat his aching body onto the thin mattress. All alone, his head collapsed towards his knees, the boy began to reflect deeply over what had happened during the night. It was all such a blur that he couldn't exactly remember anything. Saw Hobbes, but now he was gone. To where was unknown, perhaps they had already placed him against a wall and executed him as a traitor. Such victories were under his belt, how could he go so wrong? Indianapolis, rescuing those people from California, wonder where they were now. Probably dead after fleeing back to their state. Some partisan unit probably ambushed them on the way back, or so they thought.
"What to do? What can I do?" his voice squeaked from his hoarse throat and chapped lips. No answer was immediate. Soon, his voice turned to sorrow as he began to think about his parents for the first time in a long time. Where were they? Were they still alive? Dad was a strong man and home was always there, but how would they fair inside a prison camp? Bet by now, eating nothing but bread and water, they were just skeletons pressed to dig holes for others. An hour passed and Calvin had since cried himself to sleep.
Sun was setting off to the west. There was not much happening on this night. Rats had since retired his shattered division within the defenses of Muncie to reorganize and replenish. Similar forces were doing the same. Everyone was worn out to do anything.
Moving about the last pieces of his forces, the great leader retired to his room to take in a feast of turkey and a tray of molten lasagna before being briefed by his advisors over the days events. On this day, there was much good news.
"My leader, " spoke Flock, a pure white domesticate with a great mind, "Our armies have succeeded in capturing Atlanta and Los Angeles after fierce street fighting. Thousands of humans and dogs are now our prisoners"
Relaxing in his reclined seat, hand holding onto a vine of fine grapes, the other plucking one at a time to devour, Garfield listened, intrigued. "Thousands you say?" he asked Flock.
"Yes, sir. Thousands. Their so called army could not withstand the might of our army in California under General Rex. He has sent a message stating he will send to you tributes of his victory."
Savoring another grape, Garfield next turned to Advisor Tookie, a stray of small stature and not much sense. He gained his position due to being Flock's younger brother illegitimately. Reading from a piece of paper, his report already made for him, Tookie began to read, "we…have…."
Just two words and Garfield was suffering from a headache. Unable to read and write, let alone have proper diction, Flock snatched up the paper to read it himself.
"we have accumulated a substantial amount of captured supplies from all over the country as our armies continue their advance. Montreal is under siege by General Tyler and his militia of strays. He has already destroyed three enemy armies. Captured 2,000 dog prisoners, and enslaved 7,000 humans whom are now being put to work in cultivating the many farm lands under his control to feed his armies."
That being said, Garfield was worried that the farms he currently had was not enough to feed his army which was still growing. By their count, there was more than enough rations to feed them for over a year, but Garfield, being the glutton that he was, worried that it wouldn't be enough.
Removing himself from the table, Garfield marched up to the distant wall where a large map, similar to that he had outside, was plastered on. Instead of having his defenses, this map carried the great farm and ranches in the area. Marked in green were those under his control. All total, there was up to 6,000 acres of good land that grew food stuff or grazing land. It wasn't enough. Biting his lip, Garfield scanned high and low to see if there was anything else nearby that he could snatch up quickly before dogs could react. Indeed there was, a vast stretch of perfectly flat land that grew corn, of all things, owed by Farmer Brockenbrough. His 600 acres was situated to the north west of Muncie, just outside of the preplanned defense line. Garfield wanted it. Turning to his advisors, he pointed to the farmer and said, "I want it. Get it"
"Yes, sir" Flock snapped, departing the room in a jiffy, leaving Tookie alone with the great leader whom looked over this advisor of sorts.
"You look nervous, Tookie" Garfield said, walking casually towards a large window shrouded by a lavish curtain.
"I….um….I am, sir" he choked out.
"Don't be." Garfield laughed, "I'm a down to earth kind of guy" that was a lie, "relax. Come here and look at what I have to show you"
Nervously coming closer to the window, Garfield carefully unveiled it. Down below was a large red brick wall with large spikes on top. On each spike was a severed head. It was so grotesque that Tookie hurled in his mouth, trying to hold his composure. It was awful.
"You know whom they are?" Garfield hissed, "They are traitors, prisoners, and those that anger me. See to it that you are not one of them." looking out through the window, a large bonfire illuminated the row of heads each one was cat. "Traitors such as that Arlene and Nermal fellow. You see, young one, Arlene did not wish to join us. She had talent and brains and yet refused to see the real side of our power. She spat in my face when I offered her a chance and now, she rests, or her head rather, on the row of dissidents. Nermal on the other hand, spouted to being the world's cutest kitty cat, I was fed up with it. Being an accomplice to Arlene, he too was put to death in the same manner. Those others that you see" pointing out to a greater majority of the heads, "Those are galvanized cats. Soldiers or officers that decided to trade sides with the enemy and go follow them. We captured a great many in Indianapolis and this is their punishment, to be put on display for all to see. No one will dare misplace my trust, like that tiger we took. He will soon join his friends on that row."
Tookie's jowls were bulging with vomit. His entire dinner was coming back to haunt him. Heads, severed heads. How inhumane. What was this mad man thinking? Had he gone back to the days of old England? What was next, a new Tower of London? That was enough for him. Scrambling out of the room on his hands and knees, Tookie left Garfield to relish in his delight as the last bit of sun came down.
When darkness had completely consumed Indiana there was still much movement going on. A scout came running back to a group of officer to inform them what he had seen over the next hill. It was the Grays, still on the move.
"There is a road that cuts through a hill. To the right is a bridge just strong enough to hold up a tank"
With no prior knowledge of a Kitty Tank, Miller neglected that last bit and ordered up his company to prepare to cross the road. In standard infantry movement, they began to pass one by one, one man would watch the road as a second came up, nudge the first man whom, in turn, crossed the road under cover by the second. As the numbers dwindled down to a mere half dozen, the last man on the road gave a shout that someone was coming.
Hunkering down outside the cut, Sean pressed himself against the earth as best he could as the ground trembled underneath his feet. It was coming. Tanks. Kitty tanks. A column formation was snaking it's way towards the north east, part of Garfield's plans to take Brockenbrough's farm, only they did not know about it. For all they knew, it was a task force sent to deal with them. Commanders could be seen in their copulas looking about, in front, a heavy machine gun. Sharp in presence and in size, the tanks were becoming more and more of a match against the dogs. Additional and improved armor was slapped onto their hulls, and wider treads and engines allowed them to move across the soft terrain where before they could easily bog down in.
One by one, they came and went, passing right by the Grays whom were tightly holding onto one another, one for fear of falling and second for fear itself. Each time one would pass, Miller would count by moving his lips and it came to the point where it didn't matter. Over fifty. It was more than a patrol but a division movement. Somewhere had to be the infantry.
Last one came and went and to everyone surprise, no infantry materialized. Wanting to be off again, Miller urged his compatriots on while some were petrified, unable to be aroused. Coming across one such individual on the far side of the road, Miller asked what was wrong.
"we are all doomed. How can we face such power?" the person asked.
Unable to muster up the correct words to encourage a shattered comrade, Miller simply patted his shoulder and continued on with the hope he will sum of the courage himself and continue on. Taking a few steps on the soft grass that munched under his weight, Miller turned his head just enough to see the Gray out of the corner of his eye. He was still sitting there, knees tucked up to his chin, rifle cradled in one arm, muzzle near his head. Wasn't suicidal, just scared. What was he to do? Taking a moment to gather himself, the Gray looked up to see the many faces of his company looking at him. SIGH. Drew a deep breath then struggled to get up on his own two feet. When this was accomplished, he fell right in along side his comrades.
As they disappeared into the northern darkness, the two forces licked their wounds and counted their losses. Calvin was a prisoner, Hobbes was missing, as was Susie and Candance. Arlene and Nermal were long gone. For his victory, Garfield was bled. Up to 600 of his followers were killed, wounded, or prisoners themselves. To add further embarrassment to his cause, a large number decided to trade sides, cats going over to the side of humans and dogs. Those unwilling to leave their masters, those that had provided years of comfort and care was too much just to give up at the drop of a hat. Though he had lost a large number of his followers in previous battles, it was mere peanuts compared to those he has now….