"I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair;
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear;
God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear—
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year.
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous." - Alan Seeger, I Have a Rendezvous with Death
Morning had come. The sunlight was peeking over the mountains to the east. Clouds were brewing to the north, gathering in dark-grey clusters. In the dim blue colors, the branches swayed gently to the cadence of the wind. Brooke observed from her spot in a firing position, sweeping her gaze across her entire field of view. Down the slope she would look, to the pines and the Douglas firs, and the clouds overhead.
"…so if you had to choose, which one would you pick?"
"I'm not answering that," the Filipina responded.
A soft chuckle, "Figured as much. I've been giving you too many good options, it ain't easy making a choice like that."
Brooke side-glanced the cheeky soul sitting beside her. Stella was digging her hands into a wrapper of spare granola bars, and was chewing obnoxiously. It was not that her friend didn't chew with her mouth open, but Stella had a tendency to smack her lips when she ate, and it was difficult to not notice it. Brooke soon found herself going mad over the sound.
"Well, no, that isn't why. I'm just not seeing the point of straight-up killing them."
"That's the whole point of it! It's Kill-Fuck-Marry, you're not supposed to think too hard about it. Look, I'll go again if you don't want to—"
"Fine, I'll say it," Brooke capped the ebony brunette's spiel, "I'd marry…Dr. Phil. I'd fuck Steve Harvey, and I'd shoot Chris Hansen. There, that's it."
"…Dr. Phil?"
"See, I knew you'd ask that," Brooke immediately lamented, much to the amusement of her friend, "If I could, I'd just not, but such is the way of this game."
"I just find it funny that you're more embarrassed about marrying Dr. Phil, than fucking Steve Harvey."
"Stella, shut the fuck up."
Stella cackled at the embarrassed blush on her friend's face. Brooke now looked down the slope to the forward positions of the militia, and of the boys of Blackwell. If the Filipina squinted, she might see the subtle movement of heads in that trench, might pick out features to distinguish who was who.
Brooke longed to spot Warren down there, to see his shaggy hair and charming face. She hadn't been lucky yet, but the thought of sneaking off and finding him down there was itching at her self-control. Her thoughts about him have been shifting into a realm that she was uncomfortable with, a terrible realization that brought her to question how long she could stand fast to her post and to her squad-mates. It was not enough to say she longed for him, no—she sought after him in more ways than she had previous.
And to top it all off, it seemed that Stella was dangerously accurate in her guessing of Brooke's feelings. And though Stella sat there, innocently chewing on her breakfast, the Filipina knew that the girl was dangerously close to the truth.
"…you thinking about it?"
Brooke looked over to her, "About what?"
"About going down there, to see him?"
Quickly did she scoff, "No, no. Not at all."
Stella grinned, "It's a'ight Brookie, I won't judge."
"I told you not to call me that," the other girl pouted.
"I was just thinking," Stella continued, unbothered by the protest, "y'know, about who I'd be in love with. I don't think about it often, especially now, but…I wonder who they are, what they're doing in life."
"…what do you imagine them as?" Brooke asked. She was curious, and wanted to deflect the conversation off herself.
"Well, I don't really know what they would look like," Stella tapped her chin, eyes glancing up to the deep blue sky, "But I know one thing's for sure—I'd have a family with them. And I'd love my kids, and I'd make them feel like they're wanted, like they're loved. I can't hate my parents, and I know that they're trying to be there for me like they were for my sister—but I won't make up for their mistakes. I'm gonna love my kids like they would've loved me. That's all I ever wanted to feel like when I was growing up, and that's what I'm resolved to do."
The wrapper in Stella's hands was twisted around, squeezed and stretched. Brooke found it alluring to watch as Stella talked, as if the ebony brunette was morphing this empty, useless wrapper into something whole and useful.
Brooke hummed, and nodded. There was no reason to object to the truth.
"…I'm thinking about going down there, to see him."
Stella smiled, as if vindicated, "Yeah?"
"I mean, it'll be hard to do so without getting noticed—"
In the distance, many soft pops rang out. The girls turned to the north, looking up into the sky.
"…was that…?"
The whistling came.
Brooke immediately ducked her head, and Stella curled up against the wall. The impacts of the incoming shells struck a ways down the slope, even beyond the forward trench where the Boys of Blackwell occupied. But these impacts were creeping up the slope, and it became evident to Brooke and Stella that the boys would be caught in the storm very soon.
"Oh, shit, shit!"
"I'm ready, I'm ready!" Stella readied her rifle, her helmet being adjusted so she could see, "Oh fuck, they're gonna get torn to pieces!"
Panic assailed their hearts, because they knew it to be true: the Reds were coming. Already the explosions could be seen further to the west, where the militia's right flank received the brunt of a diversionary attack.
Brooke peeked up beside Stella, her wide eyes looking down to the geysers of dirt and swirls of white smoke. And her heart leapt with relief at the sight of the boys climbing from their positions, and running quickly up the slope to their trench line. All kinds of gear were carried with them, rifles and cans of ammunition, and machine guns—
Stella cackled as another barrage whistled overhead, and Brooke could barely hear the girl's words despite her shouting into the Filipina's ear, "Looks like you don't gotta worry after all—Warren's coming up to you!"
"Get him up, get him out of here, quickly!"
Andrew Berry grimaced, his teeth clenched as a sudden pressure assailed his right leg, which was wrapped in a tourniquet and covered by a tattered section of jeans. Blood oozed down his leg and all over his boot, dripping into the mud as he was carried out of the trench. Logan and Zachary balanced him in their grip, and made haste to carry him further back to any medics who happened to be nearby.
The barrage continued pounding the slope of Blackwell's heights. Whistles and drones gave way to the shaking of the earth and rustling of the trees. Already had a few of the old pines been struck by shells, and groaned one last time as they collapsed to the ground.
"Who's the section-leader, who's in command here?!" Max called to the cluster of boys forming in their line. The majority of them now occupied the middle of the defense line, with their focal point being centered around Blackwell Rock. However, their position offered no cover besides this rock, and it became clear that it was an untenable defensive position; not that they cared much. Anywhere outside of the artillery was a better place to be.
Caulfield recognized Warren's shaggy hair and grim brow as he turned to her, "That's me, I'm in charge!"
"Warren! Have your guys situated in cover over here!" Max pointed to the edge of her squads' trench, "I don't want a shell to come down and kill you all!"
The harsh noise of the barrage had been consistent for the past few minutes. It seemed the Reds were adamant to soften up the front line before they sent their infantry, but it was to the Angels' favor—the shells did not go farther than this now-abandoned front line.
"Got it!" Warren replied, barking to his comrades to displace. Max ducked into the trench with the rest of her squad. Frantically, the mousy brunette passed each firing position facing down the slope, checking each of her sisters as she passed them by.
"They're coming! They're fucking coming!"
"God help us, God help us all—!"
"They're gonna tear us to fucking pieces—!"
"First Squad, prepare to defend the line!" Max called over the frantic cries, "We will hold fast until the militia arrives! Stand your ground, don't give an inch—!"
"Max!" a call came from across the way—Caulfield turned to see Victoria skirting her way down the trench. The pixie blonde swiftly reached her, "I've got some spare ammunition in the dugout, I need some help moving it!"
"How long do we got, before they—?"
"I don't fucking know, c'mon!" Victoria took her by the arm and pulled her along, past First Squad and Warren's company, and into the trench manned by Second Squad. They reached the dugout to find River and Emilia quickly sorting through ammo cans.
"How we looking?" Chase called, and River responded, "I've got the clips ready in this can here, but we've still got a lot to go through—I don't know how long it'll take."
"Good enough," Chase took the aforementioned ammo can, "Take it, Max, and pass it on to your girls. The Reds will hit your side of the line first—"
"Vic, no," Caulfield protested, "we don't know where they'll hit us first. We should talk this out before we do anything—"
"We do not have time," Victoria pressed, and emphasized this by shoving the ammo can into Max's hands, "If we're not ready, then they'll punch right through us—!"
"Wait-wait, wait, Vic!" Caulfield stopped the blonde, "The shells—the shells aren't hitting us. They're hitting the forward trench below, but they're not hitting us. They'd be on top of us by now if they were."
Emilia and River were listening attentively despite continuing their work, and turned their heads upon hearing such a ghastly revelation. However, Max's prediction held true even from the relative safety of the dugout—the shells were still crashing down the slope, but not upon them.
Victoria seemed more stupefied about it than anything, "…what are you saying?"
"I'm saying they don't know we're up here."
Chase shook her head, and hissed, "So what, you think they won't notice? Once we open up on them, they'll direct their guns and send us all into oblivion! We ought to do a fighting retreat, if we're being honest with ourselves—"
"No!" Max growled, "We're not retreating. We cannot retreat. There's no one else here but us. We have to buy time—!"
"Even if we stood our ground, we'd need the stars aligned to keep the Reds from reaching us," the pixie blonde tried to reason, "I'm ready to stop those bastards just like you, Max, but this is too risky. We'd have to…I don't know, we'd have to take them by surprise before they know we're waiting for them!"
Max lit up like a light bulb, an idea taking form in her head, "That—that's right."
"See? Thank God you understand," a relieved smile came from Victoria, and was wiped away once she realized, "…you were talking about what I just said, right?"
"We'll lay a trap for them, catch them by surprise."
Chase blanched in dread, "Oh God, no—"
"We'll wait until they're close, and then ambush them before they realize it," Max hummed in agreement to her musings, "It'll be just like before, just like in Blackwell—"
"This is not like Blackwell, Max!" Victoria desperately countered, "If the Reds reach us, they will not show mercy. They'll butcher us all—!"
"Just like what they'll do to everyone else if we don't stop them," Max's blue eyes shone intensely, her words spoken from the flame burning in her heart, "We have faced death already, so why are we scared to face it once more? I don't fear death any more than I fear the dark—insofar as I only fear what I do not know. And I know, for an absolute certainty, that everyone in the town will be butchered like us if we don't hold this line. It has to be here, and it has to be now."
"How?!" Victoria sputtered, "How the fuck are we…you know what, damn it—Goddamn it all!"
The pixie-blonde turned away, shaken up by the suggestion, and only now Max realized what she was suggesting to her companions. A chance to prevail, a roll of the dice with no guarantee, and all the opportunity in the world to have it go sideways so fast—
"I swear to God," Chase locked eyes with her brunette counterpart, "I know it's too late now. I know I can't convince you otherwise. You just…you better be offering some of your Irish luck while you're at it, Caulfield."
Emilia and River, who were silent observers to the tense exchange between the squad-leaders, found themselves shocked still when Max began chuckling. The brunette smiled because she knew what came next, "Then let your people know. You and I will give the signal on our terms, and not a second before. I gotta tell Chloe and the others—meet me by Blackwell Rock, where Warren is!"
Max went off, ammo can still in her grip, out of the dugout and down the line towards First Squad. Emilia and River both turned to their squad-leader for some form of explanation.
Victoria had no answer for them. Instead, Chase closed her dreadful green eyes, and with her left hand she touched her forehead, her shoulders, and her heart in prayer.
The barrage was letting up. For twenty minutes, sporadic shell fire had proceeded the initial bombardment, but now the whistling had ceased. All that was left was the ringing in their ears, and the drumming in their hearts.
Warren slowly glanced over the top of the berm, and checked for the fifth time this minute. Same craters, same fallen trees, same stillness. It only made him more nervous.
He ducked back down again, the knots in his stomach giving him all kinds of hell. Beside him, Luke Parker was clutching at his AR-15, his knuckles were white and his jaw was clenched shut. Parker glanced at Warren to see if he was alright, then rotated to face Justin Williams. Justin adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, his own long rifle grasped in his right hand. Then there was Trevor Yard, who held a rifle against his chest, his head ducked down in exhaustion. Further down the line, Evan Harris and Daniel DaCosta were manning the first of the three machine guns they had taken when pulling back. The two machine-gunners had their heads ducked, and would glance to Warren every half-minute or so to see if he'd give them orders. Further beyond them, other boys from the caravan would be holding positions close to the right flank.
Warren himself was waiting for something, someone. His AR-15 was tucked in the crook of his arm, and he took heavy breaths from his nose. His left leg started to bounce nervously, but his hand stopped it before it was noticed. His mind was buzzing with adrenaline.
Footsteps came splashing through the mud. Graham turns, and sees Max come closer to him and his boys, slowing down once she notices him.
"Hey," he greets, and she replies in kind, "Victoria's coming soon."
He nods, then whispers to Luke, "Hold fire, standby for further orders."
Luke whispers this to Justin, who passes it down to Trevor, then Evan and Daniel. They pass it down to the boys that Warren can't see, names and faces of strangers mixed into their unit.
"…Warren."
He turns to her, "Yeah, Max?"
"Thanks for giving us one of your machine guns," she starts, glancing back the way she came, "I think Alyssa got all excited when she recognized whatever it was."
He chuckles, "Yeah, I figured she'd be like that. It'll keep the Reds away for as long as it's got ammo to spit at them."
He sighed, and hung his head down. Max picked up on it, "…you alright?"
"…Brooke is with your squad, isn't she? How's she doing?"
"She's doing okay, last I talked to her. She's further down the line, somewhere near where the others are," Max awkwardly gestured towards where the girl in question was.
Warren took her words to heart, "Good to hear. When this is all over, I'm going to see her. I've got to talk to her one last time, before it's over for me."
Max eyed him worriedly. She wanted to say something, anything to reassure him—but she knew very well what he was afflicted with. This was a feeling that cannot be so easily dispelled by platitudes. To jump into the metaphorical fire did more to ease one's heart than any words spoken aloud.
"You ain't fuckin' dying, not until you know what it's like," Luke snickered beside him, "outta be a proper man before you get your shit kicked in."
Warren snickered back, "If I can get some action with her before my time comes, then I'm one lucky som'bitch already!"
The boys laughed at the crass joke. Max rolled her eyes, and shook her head in subtle distaste.
Motion caught their attention. A green helmet and a clean woodland jacket came towards them, and spoke in whispers once they were close—
"We're all set?"
"My girls are ready," Max affirmed, "What about you, Vic?"
"Likewise," Chase replied, "Now, we coordinate with each other. I'll fill you in, Warren. If you haven't noticed already, the Reds don't know we're still here. Their artillery hasn't reached us, and won't be until we surprise them. We wait until they crest the slope, then open up with all we got. The militia will be arriving as soon as they can, but we don't know how long it'll take. We're expecting to hold until they arrive, but time will tell."
He nodded, and Victoria continued, "We won't be able to talk to each other once this begins, so listen up. We don't fire until the Reds are exposed, or until they notice us. Whoever starts shooting first will signal everyone else, so if you have to call it, make it count."
The pixie blonde had nothing else to say, and neither did Max and Warren. They said farewells and split apart, Max and Victoria returning to their respective squads. Warren was now alone with his boys, and had a good idea of what to do next. He eased up to a crouch and spoke to his boys, calling to them as he moved down the line—
"We wait until we see the whites of their eyes," he says, "We wait until they're right on top of us, and then we rain hell on them! Let's send these motherfuckers back to where they came from!"
A warrior's spirit took hold of them, and morphed their dreadful whispers into excited howls and chants. Before them was the great trial of their lives, and each of them was determined to prove himself worthy of a hero's fate. Death was upon them, but they greeted him with a straight brow and a vicious smile.
Warren assumed the mid-point of the line, with Trevor, Justin and Luke on his left, and Evan, Daniel and the rest on his right. Taking a deep breath, he eases his head over the berm.
It's quiet. Nothing moves. The birds are holed up in their nests, afraid of what's coming.
The slope just ahead of their defense line is uneven. One should theoretically see the bottom of the hill from where Warren stood, but their line of sight would be blocked by the trunks of fallen trees, and the mounds of churned earth kicked up by the shells.
Warren didn't shy away this time. He needed to see them, to know when to give the signal.
A gust of wind passed through the branches of the fallen trees.
A squirrel darts across his field of view, desperate for a place to hide.
A figure pokes up from behind a fallen tree trunk—
Eyes zeroed in. Dilated, unblinking. They watch the head of this figure turn back, see the swing of an arm. The figure then creeps over the fallen trunk, and is followed by a few more. Their rifles are clutched in their hands, their bayonets glisten in the light.
Warren feels his shoulders tense up. The eyes of his comrades are staring at him, waiting.
The Reds advance slowly. Bit by bit, cover to cover. They do not know what awaits them.
Warren eyes the one closest to him. Some thirty yards away, and edging closer. The Red wears a jacket, and a pair of woodland cargo pants. In their hands is an AR, much like his own. A pair of eyes hide underneath the shadow of their helmet, scanning for anything out of place.
Warren does not take his eyes off his target, even as he clicks the safety off his rifle. Neither does he look away as he slowly brings his rifle up and lines his sights upon the enemy squad-leader. Graham can hear his comrades do the same, inching themselves up in preparation.
The Red takes a couple steps, then raises a fist up. The whole attack group stops in their tracks.
Warren waits. His finger is pressed on the trigger. He can see the squad-leader scanning for them. The feeling is tugging at the both of them, teeming with energy, just waiting for the chance to spark—
The Red's helmet stops moving. Silence reigns.
It's as the enemy is about to cry out when Warren squeezes the trigger.