"We knew the world would not be the same. Few people laughed; few people cried. Most people were silent." - J. Robert Oppenheimer


All was still.

The wind had died down, no longer howling between the tree trunks. The fog was stubborn, and refused to let up despite the late morning hour.

Brandt swept his gaze across the patch of densely packed forest ahead of them. His brow was straight, and his eyes shone with determination.

He and his comrades glanced to their watches, waiting as the hand ticked down the hour.

He clutched tighter to his weapon, his M249 light machine gun. It was robust in his hands, solid and assured. It was unlike his head, which ran with all kinds of incalculable possibilities. Each one he imagined, it showed him giving the Reds hell, and that's what he looked forward to.

BT, Hendricks, and MacDonald clutched their AR's tightly in hand, awaiting the signal. A new face and name took the place where Harris had been; this young lad's rifle and kit were clean and his face was twisted in fright. Brandt took pity on him, for this poor fellow was unaccustomed to the throes of battle. Glances passed to their squad-leader, whose expression remain unchanged since they were informed of their task last night.

Brandt looked left. Men from Delaire's brigade could be seen further down the trench, close enough to toss a branch to. They had been bunched up closer to make room for men from Saunderson's shoreline detachment further west, who were due to participate in the attack. On the right flank were Galveston's men, and further east of them were militia detachments led by Jackson and Derby. Behind Brandt and his squad, the bulk of the reserves waited from their positions just south of Cedar Avenue.

It was said that they were to punch a hole in the Reds' line, and cut them off at Third Street. Spearheading the attack was the midsection, as they were called, with units on the left and right flanks pinning the enemy with diversionary attacks across the line.

"…hey."

Brandt looked over to the new guy, "Yeah?"

"Good luck to you," he smiled nervously.

"Don't wish me luck," Brandt dissuaded, "Save it for yourself. Just keep your head low and you'll be fine."

The man nodded. Doubts were perched on his shoulders, and stress wrinkled his skin. He aged twenty years in the span of a handful of seconds.

"One minute," the squad-leader called, "Our mortars should be opening up on 'em now."

True to his word, the pops of the mortars came. Whistling cut the air. The ground rumbled from the impacts. A torrent of bombs was unleashed upon the thicket; shrapnel and wood chips sailed in all directions.

In the midst of the tremors, there came a small click, as Brandt flicked the safety of his M249 automatic. The mortars gave their last hurrah; the echo of the explosions rolled off in peals. Shoulders tensed; prayers were whispered.

The squad-leader swiveled his head this way and that, then threw his arm up, "Forwards!"

Militia clambered out of their positions in the line and were instantly met with bullets whizzing over their heads. Some ducked for cover, but others charged forwards in a blind spur of excitement. A run-and-duck game ensued, where men would fire at muzzle-flashes as their comrades pushed up, only for them to run the gauntlet as their comrades suppressed.

Brandt let loose with his machine gun, his three-second bursts of fire giving ample time for the others to make strides towards the Reds' positions. Once they settled, Brandt displaced and sprinted to his next position, keeping his head low.

The distinct pattering of an enemy machine gun opened up, and Brandt rolled to the ground as hot tracers zipped across his path.

"Shit! Machine gun!"

"I can't fucking see him—!"

"Right side, he's in the rocks over there!"

Brandt peeked over the trunk of a fallen tree. Ahead of him and his buddies, some fifty yards or so, was a machine-gun position, its sides protected by large stones. The gun spat death in a narrow arc, in the kill-zone where they had stumbled into. They were pinned down and unable to push forwards.

"Somebody's gotta get a 'nade on that fucker!"

"Brandt!" his squad-leader called, "Get ready to suppress!"

"Roger!" he called back, adjusting to get his gun ready. He counted to three and popped up from cover, lining his sights up and squeezing the trigger.

Furious streams of lead smacked the stones and the trees surrounding the gun, and it fell silent. Movement in Brandt's periphery saw his squad-lead charge the gun, followed closely by the rest of his men. A swing of the arm sent a grenade into the air and down upon the Reds.

THUM

Rifles clutched in hand, the militia stormed the position. Brandt displaced and moved up, hearing the staccato of rifle fire coming from his comrades. His boots stamped down on damp earth and over fallen branches as their squad pushed forwards. Leaves tickled his face as he brushed past.

His squad was gathered by the rocks, the enemy having been cleared out of these positions. But there was something wrong—BT and MacDonald were crouching over someone, and shouting over the din—

"Hendricks! Hendricks, get the pouch!"

"Oh God—it hurts, it fuckin' hurts!"

The new guy had been struck by a stray bullet. His hand was pressed against his belly to denote where he'd been struck. Blood spilled between his fingers.

"We gotta bring him back, before he loses too much blood," Hendricks realized, "I'll carry him back!"

"No! We need you," the squad-leader shouted over the noise, "You stay put! We'll find someone else to carry him—set up a firing line, now!"

Militiamen from the reserves came bounding forwards behind them; the squad-leader was quick to get their attention. Shots echoed throughout the forest, and whizzed overhead. Brandt kept his wits close to him as he set up upon the rocks, his machine gun waiting to shoot at something.

"Who's your squad-lead—hey, we need help carrying him out!"

"We still gotta push, we don't have time to stop—"

"I can't move until my guy's reached the medics back in town; have one of your boys carry him back!"

A hollering came from the right flank, piercing the noise of the guns. Men under the command of Galveston and Jackson were attacking the Reds. It seemed to be going as well as hoped.

"We can't wait any longer, we can't help you," the reserve-militiamen were moving forwards, but Brandt and his squad could not. The squad-leader, having been blunted of his request, swore and made quickly to his men.

"BT, take him back to the street, the medics will be there waiting. Get back as quick as you can—the rest of you, with me!"

BT was quick to heave his wounded comrade up on one arm, and begin the walk back to the town. Brandt and the others began their journey opposite, deeper into the forest.


Alyssa scratched an itch under her steel helmet. Her hair was a sweaty mop atop her head, the raven-black locks were tied together into a tangle of braids poking from under the stahlhelm. She glanced back again.

"You're gonna be fine, just hold still for a second, you'll be fine—"

Chloe was almost done tending to the wounded man. A tourniquet placed on the man's thigh slowed the blood oozing out a gash further down his leg, and now the makeshift splint held his right arm in place. They don't know how it still remained after shrapnel nearly tore it from his body, but the arm held by a few sinews and nerves. The doctors and surgeons would know how to fix it.

"A'ight, we're good!"

The two girls prepared, and with a synchronized gait they lifted the stretcher up and trekked onwards. They passed bombed-out houses and smashed-up vehicles of all kinds lined along the street. Some merely had their windows smashed, others were charred husks of metal. The wounded man was mumbling something to them, but it was hard to make out. They paid it all no mind, and continued their steady pace.

When they reached the office buildings and came back, they found the rest of First Squad gathered at the intersection of Cedar Avenue and Third Street. Alyssa and Chloe sat down beside their sisters-in-arms, taking a moment to catch their breath. Hunger pains afflicted them, and their mouths were dry. Another sip of water was all they could have, and lunch hour wasn't due anytime soon.

"Max," Price called to her squad-lead, "Is there anymore wounded?"

Caulfield shook her head, "No, not yet. We're on standby for now."

"Thank-fuckin'-God," so Chloe laid down on her back, the cold concrete sidewalk was refreshing to feel as she burned from exertion. Besides Chloe, the other girls of First Squad were in much the same manner: laid out, tired and barely awake. Sleep had been averse, and adrenaline was the only thing they had left to keep going.

And Max saw this, and knew what had to be done. She trudged over to Kate, Dana, and Juliet, the only ones who could still sit straight, and asked of them, "I need you guys with me, in case the militia call for us again."

They nodded, and so Max called, "Head back to the church, all of you. Find a place to rest, and wait for the rest of us to return. Chloe, you're in charge until I come back."

"You got it, Max," Price led the tired bunch of Angels back to the church, with Max and her three picks staying behind.

"…how long are we going to remain here?" Juliet spoke up.

"Until the militia don't need our help," Max decided, "They—they're saying that the attack's almost over, so it shouldn't be too long."

Watson bitterly chuckled, "Yeah, like they would know."

"I'm hoping it's the case," Dana muttered, "I need a shower, I need a drink, and I need some freakin' sleep."

"Don't we all."

Even Kate, who was often quiet about her gripes, hummed in agreement. Their bloodied hands and sweaty skin were debilitating to their already diminished morale.

Some activity could be seen further down Third Street. From where they rested, the girls could see bands of militia outside of houses. Distant shouting reached their ears.

"What's going on?"

"Some of the Reds got trapped when the militia overran their lines," Max explained, "Now they're gonna flush them out. That's why we're here, in case—"

Shots ripped through the air. A crescendo of gunfire echoed down the street. The Angels picked up their stretchers and waited. The gunfire became sporadic, then died out.

Then, a call, "Stretcher!"

"Dana, Juliet, go!"

The two wasted no time in sprinting over to the commotion. In a couple minutes they came back with a wounded man, and proceeded to the church. It was now just Max and Kate, and this fact made them feel desperately alone.

"…where's Victoria, and the others?" Marsh softly asked.

"They're over to the west, by Main Street," came the tired answer, "I hope all's going well with Vic. She's been very tight-lipped about what's bothering her."

Concern reflected in silver eyes, "Is it…do you think it's because of them?"

"I do," Max concurred, "But I just don't know. I've been wanting to do something about it ever since you mentioned it, but Vic's not giving me any idea on what's happening. We'll just have to wait and see."

Kate ducked her gaze down to the asphalt. She remembers the aching in her chest when she reached Max down by the harbor, and told her of the whispers of treachery—and Max shared her sentiment, and subsequent worry for Victoria. If it were to go south, and blood were to be spilled, then Chase would be the first to receive it. It could not happen, no matter what.

"Stretcher, stretcher!"

"Let's go," Max beckoned. Kate hoisted the stretcher over her shoulder and followed her friend down the sidewalk.

They arrived at a house with its windows blown out, and bullet holes scattered all across the exterior. The garage was made into Swiss-cheese, and the front door was battered open; some militiamen were loitering right next to the latter. The acrid smell of smoke came from the cigarettes in their mouths.

"I ain't sending them in—there's nothing good for them in there, and you fucking know it!"

"I'm not asking you, corporal. Jackson needs every man to the front, we don't have the time nor the manpower to spare for this."

Max and Kate stopped short of two men—the squad-leader and the section-leader—who were embroiled in a tense conversation. The squad-leader was a shorter man than his high-ranking counterpart and was rightfully intimidated by the glowering he received; but his words still rung clearly.

"Fine then, let 'em see. Fat load of good it's gonna do for their poor souls."

The squad-leader gathered his men, and set about for the front, the militia gathering 'round him and marching on. A few men stayed with the section-leader, who shook his head and sighed. A weight was upon his shoulders, and pinching his brows. He turned to them—

"Inside the house, there's…there's someone that needs to be transported. It's all clear, so go on."

His words hinted at something unspeakable, but they took no chance; the two girls rushed for the busted front door and went inside.

There was a hallway directly in front of them, which led to the back of the house and other rooms which they couldn't see. On the right, another smashed door greeted them to the garage interior, which was a complete mess. There was a living room directly to the left of the entrance.

Two figures were laid lifelessly on the floor. One was in the hallway, the other was felled where the living room carpet met the hallway's tile. Judging by the heavy green jackets and vests on them, the girls concluded they were Reds.

The smell of iron struck them, and sent them reeling. Hands were raised to mouths in an attempt to block the pungent odor. They looked to the spacious living room, and found a semi-circle of three chairs. One was empty. Two were not. They moved around to get a better look at the bodies.

It dawned on Max and Kate simultaneously, as they looked over the corpses—they were not combatants of any kind. It was a mother, and father. In their late fifties, if the wisps of grey hair were any indication. Both were slumped over, yet held up by a single piece of cloth tied around their torsos. Blood dripped from their cut-open throats and spilled onto the carpet.

A small girl lay on the floor in the fetal position, her arms curled around her head. Blood surrounded her, dotted her pale skin, stained her jacket and ripped jeans, but there were no actual wounds to patch up. Long black hair covered their face and stifled her quiet sobs. The little girl was the child to the now deceased couple.

Max and Kate glanced at each other. Not a word was said.


"Last round!" the group-leader called. The mortarmen fired a final salvo, then took their rest.

Miller rammed the shell into the breach with a steady fist. Once it was loaded, he gestured to Vinny, who closed the breach-block with a handle on the side of the gun.

"Gun up!" he called to Fredrickson, the gunner. He had a target picked out, and waited for the signal to fire.

"Standby—!"

"C'mon Freddy, give 'em hell!"

"Fire!"

The gun recoiled from the force. Smoke wisps could be seen at the business-end of the barrel. A distant thwum sounded a few seconds after.

"Good effect, that was just left of target."

"Nice fuckin' shot, Fred!"

Fredrickson smiled, "I would hope it was good. I wouldn't want to hit the militia down below by accident."

"Hey GL," Murphy called to the group-leader, "what've they said about our boys down there?"

"Nothing new," he called back, "They're still holding, despite the Reds' attempts to push them back. I reckon we've got them on the ropes by now."

"Y'hear that boys? We've crushed them!" a hollering came as the mortarmen cheered for their brethren's success, and for their own part in putting an end to the Red terror afflicting Arkadia. If they were true to their assumptions and what they've been told, then the Reds have been split in half along Third Street, and would most likely have to fall back to avoid complete annihilation at the hands of the militia. A surprising turn of events it had been, and now the joy of victory swelled in their hearts and made itself known in peals of giddy laughter.

A runner came up to them, wheezing out his lungs, "Hey—hey guys!"

"Well, I'll be damned, he's made it back in one piece!" Vinny snickered at the familiar face, "Come over here, Tony, we've got nothing left to do now but sit and talk."

The runner—Tony—trudged over and sat down amongst his fellow men.

"So, how was it down there?" Miller asked him.

Tony was spent after running his marathon, but he answered, "It was a mess. Our guys were so quick, the Reds couldn't mount a good defense. I heard that most the shooting is because our boys have some of them trapped in the houses along the street, and they're busy flushing them out."

"Damn," Murphy swore, "That's gotta be some nasty firefights. I wouldn't wanna be the one clearing houses full of bad guys."

"…Tony," Fredrickson asked.

"Yeah?"

"You were down by the church, right?"

Heads turned at the implication. Tony sobered up, "Yeah?"

"Do you know the…what's the count?"

Smiles disappeared. Tony ducked his head down and reached for the breast pocket of his jacket; he pulled out a small flask and drank from it, wincing as he did so.

"It was…they said it was about thirty dead, twice as many wounded. It looked a lot worse than that, to be honest. I saw a guy carry his buddy in, but it was already too late for him. The poor bastard had taken a bullet in the stomach and bled out on the way back."

The men were silent. The group-leader had come by to join the conversation, but even he was compelled to hold his tongue at the weight of the bitter realization. They had lost a lot of people already, but to know the Reds had taken more from them shocked them to silence. The noise of skirmishing from down below was all the men had to accompany them.

But then, a different kind of sound reached their ears. A drumming of footsteps, and the sound of voices in the air—

The mortarmen looked across the street from their positions, and saw a double column of rifles and stretchers, marching towards the defense line further north on Blackwell's heights. And the voices of these stretcher-bearers were too feminine to be from any man of the militia. Indeed, the Angels were singing, low and solemn.

if you want the whole militia, we know where they are,

We know where they are, we know where they are—

If you want the whole militia, we know where they are,

They're laid out on our stretchers.

We've seen 'em, we've seen 'em,

Laid out on the stretchers.

We've seen 'em, we've seen them—

Miller and his friends watched as their stretchers swayed to and fro. The rhythm carried them forwards and guided their hearts steadily to the forest. The men watched them go, and heard their chorus echo in the wind—

We've seen 'em, we've seen 'em,

Laid out on the stretchers.

We've seen 'em, we've seen 'em,

Laid out on our stretchers, we've seen 'em,

Laid out on our stretchers…


A/N - Expect a delay in upload schedule. I have sustained an injury to my hand, and it's set me back from writing. Will resume whereupon full recovery.