"You must either
Rise or fall,
Rule and win—
or serve and lose.
Choose your own lot:
Suffer or triumph,
Be an anvil or a hammer." - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
It was at the stroke of six o'clock when Max jolted from her slumber. With a gasp, she pulled herself from her comfort and reached for the alarm clock atop the nightstand—
—which was turned off. No droning mantra had roused her from her sleep.
Instead, a dull staccato rumbled outside. Max turned her sleepy gaze to the windows and listened closely to each individual sound. It reminded her of a thunderstorm, creeping and erratic.
It was time to get ready.
The daily routine carried her out of bed and to her closet. A change of clothes, then reaching for the toiletry bag—wait, scratch that, there wasn't enough time for a shower.
The sleeping mass on her couch grumbled, and Chloe pushed herself up on one arm to peek at the window blinds.
"…shit, already?"
"Yeah," Max concurred, "…you should get ready Chlo', we'll be out there soon."
Chloe didn't mumble, nor did she complain. She rose from her spot on the couch and reached for her jacket and gear placed on the floor beside where she'd slept. Not a word was spoken.
They both donned their attire, then their vests and boots. Their helmets were strapped to their rucksacks, and their pouches filled with useful items like pens and notepads, and a spare map that had been given to each of them, courtesy of Victoria. Crude though it was, it would serve its purpose when the time came.
Max glanced over to the camera and messenger bag perched on her small desk. She thought about the idea of bringing it along, to document this coming journey—memories awaited to be captured by such a lens.
She shook her head, dismissing the idea. It was more likely to be a waste than a benefit.
"When was the last time you held it?" Chloe asked her, catching on to that pensive glance.
"I…don't remember," came the response, "…I guess it was when we were at the junkyard. I can't think of any other moment besides that."
A chuckle, then a scoff. It seemed like Chloe wanted to make a snide remark, but she bit her tongue and held back. She settled with, "Time's got a helluva way of doing that to you. Pushing you forwards, and then pulling you back at the same time."
"…yeah."
They walked out into the hall. Already was the space coming alive as the other girls prepared themselves. Max stepped quickly for Room 222, and gently knocked upon the door; it opened a few seconds after.
"Good morning, Max," Kate smiled. The blonde was already dressed and ready, early riser as she was.
"Morning," Max reciprocated, "You guys ready?"
"I'm ready, but Emilia still needs a second," Marsh stepped aside to show Greenock sat upon the blonde's couch, struggling to get her foot inside one of her boots.
"…what time did you get up?"
"About thirty minutes ago," Kate replied, "I woke up to the sounds outside, and couldn't fall back asleep. At least I got to take a shower."
"Lucky you," Max grumbled, to which Kate snickered triumphantly. Behind the mousy brunette, Chloe test-sniffed the sleeve of her jacket.
"I'm ready, I'm ready!" Emilia called, and stumbled to join them. From the other rooms, the rest of Max's squad began to form around her.
"How're you holding up, everyone?" Caulfield asked of the others, and they nodded their heads in reassurance.
"We're good, Maximus," Juliet affirmed, "just a bit tired, is all."
Max made sure to check every single one of her comrades, glancing to each of them. They were anxious; Stella was bouncing her weight from one foot to the other, her hands clutching the straps of her vest. Brooke was rolling their knuckles, and Dana was fidgeting with loose strands of her ponytail. Alyssa's shoulders were tensed, and her head was turned down to where her piercing eyes looked from underneath her brows.
The rumble could be heard, faint and yet so distinct amongst the silence.
"Alright, let's go."
Max led her squad down the steps. The first floor of the girls' dorms was alive with movement as the rest of their company prepared to leave. Victoria and her aides were awaiting Max at the close end of the hall.
"Caulfield."
"Chase."
It was short and full of words unspoken. Last night had taken up the time necessary for platitudes, where the two squad-leads had spent their time making those last-minute preparations.
"Where's Emilia?"
"Right here," Max gestured for the inquired girl's attention, "Are Olivia and Grace ready?"
"They're taking their sweet time, but they should be out soon enough," Chase replied. True to her predictions, the two girls stepped out and join their comrades in Max's squad. Greenock found her place beside Taylor and Courtney, and hushed pleasantries were exchanged between them.
Max and Victoria looked to the exit. The staccato was calling to them from outside, beyond the threshold of the doors. To step out would guarantee the end of the silence, the end of the final moments of peace.
Again, emerald green and ocean blue eyes met. Assuredness in each other was all they could rely on from this point until the end. They both looked back to their squads.
The pixie blonde called to the Angels, "Is everybody ready?"
A chorus of nervous affirmations returned in answer.
The mousy brunette, spurned to give hope to her sisters, asked of them, "Is everyone ready?"
This time, a chorus of determined affirmations replied.
As one, the twenty Blackwell Angels stepped outside, and began their march down to the church. The cracks and pops of small-arms, and the thwum of the heavy guns followed their every step.
The entrances on the north and south side of the church had been left open, and light spilled into the mid-section of the church's nave. The cots were still there, bare and with clean white sheets laid atop them, but there was something foreboding in how many were laid out inside this space.
Nurses and volunteers were gathered in the small section of pews situated in the ambulatory, clutching trays of breakfast. The cooks couldn't have their kitchen inside the church anymore, so their station was moved to one of the office buildings across the street.
Their boots squeaked a bit on the tiled floor as they walked inside. The humidity was more intense than the previous couple of days, and already morning dew coated the streets and sidewalks. With frazzled hair and grimaces, the Angels shuffled past the cots and down to the lower level where their bunk beds remained.
They had some time left before the order came, and this was spent trying to obtain some more precious minutes of sleep. Between the obnoxious fluorescent lights and rumbling of the guns, not many were fortunate enough to find rest.
Max and Victoria happened upon Dr. Neumann as they were coming back up from getting settled in. The Head Doctor was now the mediator between them and Commander Madsen, and accompanying the doctor was a band of militia operating as supply-bearers. Previous tallies and requests had been taken into consideration, and now he was to oversee the distribution among other last-minute preparations on his part.
Each Angel was brought up and was given the following items: a Mauser M48 rifle, a bandolier of five pouches loaded with ammunition, and a medic-bag of assorted first-aid kits. These first-aid kits were themselves divided into low-trauma and high-trauma kits; the low-trauma kits included items like band aids, Neosporin, aspirin pills and electrolyte packets. The high-trauma kits had with them two rolls and five pads of gauze, no less than two tourniquets, a set of tweezers, and a roll of tape with high tensile strength. Every other Angel was given a six-foot long stretcher, which had to be set aside by the entrance as they were too long to be carried down to the bunks.
But the militiamen had more than this. Entire crates of these very same supplies and other assorted medical items found their way inside the church. Dr. Neumann's own requisition had given him access to much more quantity and quality than what the Angels had been given. More crates of ammunition and a multi-piece radio were set up by the narthex as well.
Holding their supplies in hand brought a dreadful weight down upon Max and the others. They realize that their supplies were not meant to be effective solutions, but temporary stopgaps. Their saving of lives would come from how well they could ferry the wounded back to the church.
The Angels collectively decided to gather their gear and wait by the interior columns, there where their stretchers were placed. If the order would come, then at least they'd be ready for it. The bunks down below were too cold anyways.
So they waited. Breakfast for them was quick and unfulfilling, a simple ration of a granola bar and some water from their canteens.
Minutes were spent slowly, one after the other. The morning fog was clinging to its hold over the town, the clouds were gray and oppressive. Whisperings of another thunderstorm passing over the Oregon coast in the next couple of days was spreading through the ranks.
"…anybody got a pack of cards?"
Eyes turned, and brows were raised. Stella held up her hands defensively, "Hey, just askin'!"
"I'm more miffed about you thinking I wouldn't be prepared," Olivia chided, reaching into her rucksack and pulled a pack of cards. The others found themselves impressed by the convenience of it.
"See, now that's what I'm talking about!" Stella smiled, "what games do you know, Blackjack? Twenty-One?"
"Those are the same, Stell'," Brooke deadpanned.
"I knew that," the ebony brunette dissuaded, "I was just testing her."
"I've played card games before," Olivia chuckled at the fib, "My parents would always play whenever the rest of my family visited us. My favorite's this one called Screw Your Neighbor."
"You guys screw your neighbors?" came a snicker, as Chloe caught on to the last bit of the explanation, "what kinda family d'you grow up with?"
"That's not it—!" but already were the others giggling fiercely, and Olivia shook her head in resignation, "It's just the name of the game, that's what it's called! You think I'd call it that if I could?"
"How do you play?" Alyssa asked, "You've got me curious."
"It's simple, first you start with a single card—"
The rumble of the guns was interspersed with the cheers of winning hands and clever jokes.
Afternoon transitioned into evening. The clouds have been holding steady, and this grey overcast became a gloomy sight to behold. The streetlights had not turned on this time, so beyond the light of the lamps and candles, as well as some spare handheld flashlights, there was nothing to illuminate their immediate surroundings.
The call finally came through, after some militiamen by the radio had passed the message to Dr. Neumann. A vanguard detachment of the militia was pulling back from their forward positions after heavy fighting. Wounded would be arriving by vehicle soon after.
Stretchers were seized in hand. The two squads were divided into teams of two, just as they practiced—the mannerisms and the heavy weight of past exercises sprung to the forefront of their minds.
On the east and west sides of the church building, there were two patches of ground, roughly twenty feet vertical and twelve feet horizontal. In these plots, militiamen had dug small L-shaped trenches, complete with a defilade and firing positions facing north and south. The Angels filled one of these trenches on the west side of the church and awaited the arriving company.
Victoria could see the puffs of her breath in the bitter cold air from where she stood. Though the wind did not assail her, and though she had come prepared with her jacket, the atmosphere was heavy with ice-cold perspiration. Her hands were clenched into fists to maintain some semblance of warmth.
Looking back down to the trench brought the same sight as last time. Emilia, Taylor and Courtney were close to her and huddled together to keep warm. After them was Steph and Samantha, the former of whom had a spare blanket that was being shared by the two. Beyond them was Sara and her two friends, and further down the trench was Max and her squad.
Another huff. Victoria's nose was numb from the cold.
"River."
The pony-tailed blonde that was sitting right beside her looked up, "W-what?"
"How're you holding up?"
River took a second to adjust her hold on the stretcher, then answered her squad-lead, "I…I'm fine. I guess."
"Be ready. I'm betting they'll arrive any minute now."
Chase was unsure if the vehicles bringing the wounded would have their headlights on or not. Granted, this wasn't much of a concern since they'd be the only vehicles out on the road—all the other cars and trucks had the gas siphoned out of their fuel tanks and abandoned.
"…why me?"
Victoria looked back down upon hearing the whisper, "What?"
"Why did you pick me? Why not them?" River gestured to Victoria's friends. Not once did she have the courage to look the pixie-blonde in the eyes.
And this was why the pixie-blonde frowned, "Tay' and Court' didn't want to split up. I'm not going to force them."
"But you forced me—"
"I forced you, because you are a liability to this squad," Chase hissed, "You've got a long way to go if you want that kind of respect from me. Until then, you follow my lead, and you do as I say."
River said nothing back. She was far too defeated to say anything in her defense. It made Victoria want to scoff.
"…I don't understand why you haven't quit," she started, "I've given you the opportunity, I've made it clear that there'd be no hard feelings—and yet you're still here."
"I have my reasons," River snipped.
"I'm sure you do," came the sardonic reply. Victoria looked back down to the other blonde, "but I've got to look after the others just as much as you, and Greenock. I can't play favorites."
"Then what am I doing here, as your second?"
"So I can make sure you don't do something stupid. Like, really stupid," Chase emphasized, and turned back to check the road. The wounded were due to arrive any minute now.
River looked up to her and frowned. The pixie-blonde's words did more against her comfort than the cold. Schwartz made no indication to claim they were a lie, and neither would she admit the truth.
The hum of engines brought their heads turning. Already was Victoria pulling up at River's arm and hoisting her up, the stretcher's fabric scratching her face at the sudden movement. The Angels clambered out of their positions in the trench and rushed for the sidewalk as the trucks drove into view.
Some poor militiamen were still lucky enough that a stretcher wasn't necessary, and the girls could take them by the arms and escort them inside. Other men were not so lucky.
Dark though it was, they didn't trip over themselves. The quickness of their actions spared them from thinking too long about the sweat of their hands, or the bloodstains that formed on their stretchers. Their ears had tuned out the cries and groans already.
But nothing could tune out the feeling of a wounded militiaman clutching at one's arm, and begging for a bullet. Nothing could protect them from glancing into the eyes of men that could not see. The stench of war was contagious and infected each of the Angels upon contact.
It was over in less than five minutes. The trucks pulled away and the nurses took over the process of caring for these wounded militiamen, the Angels being given the chance to go back to their bunks. Dr. Neumann thanked them for their efficiency before he set out to do his part.
No one went down to their bunks. The girls took up their spots in the shade of the interior columns. Under the glow of candlelight, they inspected the bloodstains on their persons. Someone eventually had the bright idea to clean them with a spare rag, a thought which seemed to snap the girls from their reverie.
The firefights died down, 'till but a few straggle of pops and bangs could be heard. Sleep didn't come to them until a few hours after, once they had become acclimated to the sounds.
