"What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds." - Wilfred Owen, Anthem for Doomed Youth


The fog was troublesome. Visibility was already bad enough when it was overcast, but with the morning fog sweeping through the town from the coast, one could only look fifty yards before being unable to see what's ahead of them. After the last day of sporadic fighting, the guns had fallen silent, the weather holding them back from engagements.

It made traversing these quiet streets feel like being alone, lost in a sea of emptiness. The only semblance of company came from each other.

Max glanced back to Juliet. The bronze-brunette was supposed to be catching up to where she had taken cover behind a parked minivan. In circumstances past, Max would have picked Chloe to be her partner in missions like this, but that could not be the case now. Protocol deemed it too dangerous to have both a squad-leader and their second-in-command be put at risk, as the rest of the squad would be without leadership in the worst-case scenario.

Caulfield shook her head from the thought of it.

Don't think about that.

Juliet was her next choice. Though she had not the strength of Alyssa nor the athleticism of Dana, Watson was the most accepted as a secondary leader besides Chloe. Also, Juliet had lost the rock-paper-scissors match to see who would follow Max out into the unknown, and one does not supersede the obligation of a rock-paper-scissors match.

The streets were lined with abandoned cars. Though they did not block the street itself, these vehicles sat parked along the edge, to the point that they formed a partial blockade between the street and the sidewalk. Besides slipping between them, one had to reach the end of the block to circumvent the line of automobiles in their way.

But it wasn't all that bad. These parked cars were suitable for moving from cover-to-cover, much like what the two Angels were doing now.

Juliet's boots smacked against the concrete as she slid into cover just beside Max. Already was she suffering from exertion—the rucksack containing some cans of spare ammunition was weighing down on her back, and she was short of breath. The bronze-brunette clutched her rifle close to her.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," Watson replied, "Just…god-damn, this ammo's heavy."

Max agreed. The straps of her own rucksack were digging into her shoulders. They learned quickly that carrying ammunition by hand was not a simple task, and it wasn't any better when carrying it by rucksack.

"Don't give up, we're almost there."

Caulfield peeked around the minivan. Whilst clutching her rifle, she pushed herself forward with her free hand, jogging quickly down the sidewalk. She counted five seconds before ducking into cover, this time behind a truck. A couple seconds passed, then Juliet followed right after.

They continued this trek until they reached the intersection of Main Street and Cedar Avenue. There was a short wall on their side of the avenue, and once hopping over that and crossing the asphalt, they came upon the edge of Arkadia's northern town limits. And while there was a sidewalk on this opposite side, the ground gave way to trees thereafter, rising steadily up and plateauing after about thirty feet of distance.

The trees and shrubbery replaced the houses and buildings, and it was here that the militia had created their main defense line. Beyond that were the forward positions, which were designed to ambush and inflict the most damage possible to the Reds' advance along the coastal highway.

The two girls followed the sidewalk eastwards until they reached an opening a ways down from where they crossed the street. This opening was a giant slit in the mound of earth, with sandbags lining the top and wooden pallets placed at the sides, these pallets being held together by metal rebar. Max and Juliet glanced at each other, slung their rifles over their shoulders, then continued on.

The smell of damp earth filled their nostrils as they walked into the trench system. It became apparent that this place was very much lived-in—a militiaman hobbled past them, a green and muddy raincoat covering most his body. The AR-15 in the crook of his arm bounced the slightest with each step he took.

Another militiaman was bent over a small, battery-powered electric stove, a mug of freshly brewed coffee in his right hand. It didn't taste good, if the grimace he wore was any indication.

"Excuse me," Max asked him, "Do you know where we can find Macmillan?"

The man was stupefied by their presence. He was bewildered as he inspected their helmets, their vests and boots; and only once he noticed the heavy rucksacks on their backs did he realize their purpose. He pointed them down the trench and muttered, "That way, he's the one with the mullet."

Max and Juliet followed his guidance, passing a number of militia in their firing positions. These little out-croppings sprouted from the trench line and would usually be enough to house one or two men and their equipment. Again, the bewildered stares followed them as they trekked onwards.

The trench line was built on what was called a traverse-system: the trench was not a straight continuous line but a zigzag of smaller lines going back and forth. The idea was to minimize the potential damage of an artillery shell landing inside the trench, and to offer defenders the possibility of overlapping fields of fire against attackers.

Eventually, the two girls reached a larger dugout in the line, and it was here that they found who they were looking for. Amongst the loose congregation of militiamen standing about and fast asleep in makeshift beds, one man stood boldly by a radio operator and his radio set, in the middle of the open space.

This man was six feet tall and looked to be in his early thirties. He took his time with the lighter in his hand in lighting the cigar in his mouth; the smoke trails danced from the flame, then floated up into the air. He was without his helmet, and a mane of dark brown hair styled into a mullet could be seen. His tired demeanor showed more than anything else—the wafting rank of body odor and cordite surrounded him.

Max called to him, "Are you Macmillan?"

All heads turned to them. Macmillan's own eyes scrutinized them from behind the trails of milky white smoke.

He spoke, his words muffled by the cigar in his mouth, "Yeah, that's me."

"We're here to deliver some ammunition, the kind you've been asking for," Max slipped the rucksack off her shoulders and attempted to present the ammo to him.

"That's alright," he stopped her, and gestured to a small mountain of crates and boxes, "Set it over there, that's where we've been keeping it all."

The two girls said nothing more, and went about their work. A militiaman walked over to his buddy sleeping on the floor, and woke him up to watch them. The eyes of every militiaman observed them as they went about stacking the ammo cans, and this scrutinizing was another weight upon the girls' shoulders, one that they couldn't shake off.

They were quick about it, and zipped up their packs to leave. Though they had not spoken a word to each other, Max and Juliet had the same idea to leave this place as quickly as possible.

"Hold on," wispy white smoke billowed from Macmillan's mouth as he spoke, "Might I ask something of you little 'uns."

It wasn't an actual question. It also wasn't their place to challenge a battle-worn man like him.

"Sure," Max gulped. Beside her, Juliet held back a sudden coughing fit from the smoke.

"Why're you all still here?"

He had no contempt for them. There was no animosity in his tone. It could be said that he asked not for his own curiosity, but the curiosity of every militiaman in this dugout. If anything, his inflection spoke of something else, something more akin to pity.

Why are you still here, and not carried away by sanity off to brighter pastures?

Why be here, amongst fire and shells, when you could be far away from harm?

A pitiful sight they must've been to men like them, to see young girls crudely dressed like them, expected to do things like them. That they might partake in horrors that lied behind jaded eyes, and billowing trails of cigar smoke.

But Max and Juliet didn't want their pity.

"We're volunteers. We—we're Arkadians," Max replied, and because now the weight of the ammunition wasn't holding her down, she seemed to puff her chest out with pride, "We're supposed to help with defending our home, and our families and friends. That's our job, and we'll do it the best that we can."

Her response made their expressions sour. Dreadful pairs of eyes surrounded them, some men chose to look away. Macmillan's brow was low and straight, but he had a softness in his voice, "Fair enough. You can go, little 'uns."

And so they went back. They had no trouble in reaching the church in time for a late breakfast.


"Assume positions!" Victoria called out, and the Angels of Second Squad stood at the ready. The boats were lining themselves up to be received by the linesmen, they with the ropes in their hands to tie the boat alongside the dock. Waves lapped against the rocks and the sides of these boats, the wind had come sweeping down from the north and was not intending to stop anytime soon.

The dolly in River's hands was blistering cold. Beside her, Steph held the other dolly they had to spare. Behind them, Emilia and Samantha stood, the gloves on their hands giving them some protection against the biting wind. River wished she had her own pair, if only so that she didn't have to stand and wait for them to unload with frostbitten fingers.

Off to the left, Chase and the rest of Second Squad waited for the signal. Beside the ten Angels, a detachment of militiamen was on standby as well. The men were supposed to bring the cargo off the boat and onto the dock, whilst the Angels would help transport it the rest of the way to the hangars further back. The key was to offload everything as fast as possible to make room for the passengers waiting by said hangars. From there, as was mentioned to them, a seven-hour journey southwards would take these passengers to a safer place, and the boat would be loaded up with needed supplies and sent back to Arkadia.

To save lives, they had to be quick on the draw. No slowing down, no interruptions. No mistakes could be made when getting the cargo off.

River doubted that mistakes didn't happen in this meticulous process, but the point was made: every minute spent offloading was another minute the Reds had to close the distance and cut off the last avenue of escape. Time worked against them.

The linesmen secured, then tightened the ropes. The gangways were prepared and lowered. The militiamen took their cue, and began their task of offloading the boat. Crates and boxes came off one at a time, piece by piece.

River watched as the sailors stepped off their ship and trudged past the Angels standing at attention. These weary souls were marked by the smell of sea salt and slimy fish, but they had the faces of men who had not the will to care anymore. Their black raincoats shimmered from the sea spray. Untrimmed and bedabbled were their features, with greasy beards and eyes as wrinkled as raisins. Their voices were gruff, but a kindled flame still burned in them, untouched by the cold waters. They sang a solemn tune as they marched past.

As the souls of the dead fill the depths of my mind,

I'll search without sleeping 'till peace I can find—

I fear not the weather, I fear not the sea.

I remember the fallen, do they think of me,

When their bones in the ocean, for-ever shall be.

Their shift was over. They were out at sea for a long time—more than twelve hours in storm and rain. They would head to another hangar a ways down the harbor and find a place to rest. Another team of sailors would take their place and continue the cycle of ferrying people out and bringing supplies back. Come tomorrow, they would replace another tired crew, and do the practice all over again.

River looked on somberly. To imagine herself in such a dangerous post, to experience a life at seas, far away from any comfort of the ground beneath her feet—a terrible feeling it was. She found it hard to complain of being here, even despite the coming dangers.

"Alright, let's go!" Victoria called to them. The militiamen have unloaded most of the cargo and it was their time to pitch in and help.

River and the other girls stepped forth. The dollies would move the heavier, bulkier items whilst two-person teams would carry by hand. Emilia and Samantha, with the confidence of their gloved mitts, would lift the boxes and crates onto the dolly so River and Steph could roll these items to the hangar. They would go back and forth, carting one, two, maybe three pieces if they dared. Not a moment was spent waiting.

Except, once the boat was loaded with a new crew and as many people as it could carry, its motor carried it out to the open water, and they'd be on standby for the next boat to come along. Thirty minutes was the amount of time it usually took, and this time was spent waiting impatiently.

River and most the Angels decided to stay inside the hangar to avoid the chilly wind. Here, the air was still cold but it wasn't spraying mist in one's eyes.

"…hey, Steph."

"Hm?" Steph asked, scratching an itch under her white beanie.

"Look at what it says on this crate here," River coaxed the other girls to look, and they traced where she pointed to an inscription on the wet exterior of a wooden crate. This crate was an arm's length long and half as wide, its exterior painted dark green with a dull yellow inscription on its front.

US, Mortar, Caliber 60 millimeter, M49A2E2, ten rounds

"What in the world?"

"Mortars? Aren't they like those big guns that lob the shells really far away?" Emilia asked, curious wide eyes reading the inscription, "What's the other word they use to call them?"

"Artillery," Steph murmured, "My dad mentioned something about that before, when he was in the Army. Makes me wonder what this kind of stuff is doing here."

River laid her eyes on another crate, this one being a larger size than the box of mortar ammunition. It had the same green case, and the same yellow font etched on its surface.

US, 60mm Mortar, M2

"…we'll find out soon enough."


The clouds were a dull magenta, a sea of fading warm colors to signal the departure of whatever sunlight they had. Evening was setting in, soon the guns would start up again and the staccato would likely carry on into the night.

First and Second Squads were resting in the office buildings a block north of the church. These office buildings were only two stories tall, and were dwarfed by the church's ambulatory tower and high-angle roof. These buildings took up a two-block by two-block section of the town, and in the middle of this collection of offices was a small pedestrian roundabout of open space. The office buildings themselves conformed to this open space by having a quarter-circle indent on their innermost corners. As an added benefit, the generators that powered the lights in these buildings were left on by necessity for the sake of the medical personnel and the cooks assigned to them.

As strange as it sounds, Taylor could describe these office structures like four rectangular chocolate brownies, each with one of their corners bitten off. It made her crave for something sweet and simultaneously made her nauseous at the thought of eating that much chocolate in one go.

The Angels had their pre-planned supper. The chefs were kind, and spared them an extra ration of cooked chicken breast to go along with their mashed potatoes and gravy. A food coma had set in, and most of the twenty girls were resting before their sleep be interrupted by the resumption of the guns.

Courtney lay with her head propped against her rucksack, tossing and turning in her sleep. Taylor wasn't tired enough to lay down, and neither was she keen to wander in the dark without her battle-buddy. Victoria had exhaustion written on her face, but she willed herself to remain awake, and busied herself with anything she could think of.

Which was why once the pixie-blonde squad leader had finished eating, she was right back to scribbling on a piece of paper with a spare pencil, which was placed on a spare clipboard in her lap.

"…hey, 'Tori," Taylor quipped.

Victoria didn't stop scribbling, but she replied, "Hm?"

"What'chya got there?"

"It's a document of requisition, for more supplies."

"…more supplies? For us?"

Chase nodded. She had to pause her scribbling to stifle a sudden yawn, but otherwise she kept to her work. Taylor couldn't help but notice the hunch in her friend's back, and the furrowed brows adorning a blank stare. The Queen was stressed.

Taylor decided to help keep the girl's mind afloat, "What kinda supplies? More food, more water—?"

"More stuff," Victoria clarified, "I had a short brief with Dr. Neumann before we went down to the harbor, and he informed me that we'll be needing to maintain the supplies outside of what we've already been given. That means, anything like this pencil and clipboard, the toothbrush and toothpaste we have, the spare batteries for our flashlights, nail clippers, and anything else that's personal—it's our problem now."

Taylor wondered, "Then why fill out that paper there, if they're not gonna help us?"

"It's the technicalities that matter," Chase answered, "This form is more of a notice than anything. We'll have to go back to our dorms and get the stuff we need, but to notify them is the important part. Old Madsen's too busy to contact directly, but the Dr. Neumann can excuse us on his behalf."

News like this was troublesome to hear, but it was to be expected. The pressure of logistics was going to grow with every passing day, until it might collapse under the weight of hungry mouths and bleeding hearts.

Taylor looked over her shoulder at the commotion of Courtney rolling over in discomfort, muttering something under her breath as she slept. Christensen smirked, "Hey Vic, you think they might start to ration other things like, oh I don't know, coffee—?"

"Better quit that right fucking now," Wagner grumbled, her eyes pinched closed, "I'm not gonna hear nothin' of it."

"That's a double negative," Taylor snickered.

"You know what I mean," but instead of quieting down, Courtney put a hand on her head and groaned, "Aw fuck, this hurts."

Even Victoria turned to look at her, "Court', you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, just a headache," she mumbled, then zipped open her bag of first aid kits with the intent to find the aspirin they'd been given. One pill and a swig of the canteen later, she eased herself back down, and avoided the concerned looks on her friends' faces.

"…I told you guys, I'm fine," Wagner huffed.

"Sorry," Taylor placated, "It's just, I'd hate to have this happen when we're out there, where it's…"

"…I know Tay'."

A hand reached out and patted Courtney's shoulder, and the short-haired girl nodded silently in appreciation. The hand retreated a second after, just as Victoria had finished her scribbling on the paper.

The guns opened up a couple hours later, in the pitch black of night.