"You cannot be a hero unless you are prepared to give up everything; there is no ascent to the heights without a prior descent into darkness, no new life without some form of death. Throughout our lives, we all find ourselves in situations in which we come face to face with the unknown, and the myth of the hero shows how we should behave. We all have to face the final rite of passage, which is death." - Karen Armstrong, A Short History of Myth
The southern line was holding. Such was the rumor that spread from the men being rotated in and out of the defense line. These Reds were unlike their comrades to the north with their savage and relentless attacks—this encroachment was slow, and deliberate. However, the men of the Arkadian militia were just as deliberate in their defense, and so the line held despite the clamor of northern artillery and the pressure of gunfire. The Angels had nothing to fear from this point of attack, and were assured of their militia counterparts and their resolve to hold.
What did scare the Angels, however, were the fires that had burned all night and well into these morning hours, and the invigorated clash of arms coming from the north; another thrust of the Reds' manpower and machinery was underway. The sky was being painted black, and the smell of charred bark and wood was thick in the air. A breeze from the nearby shore would push the smell away, only for the fire's blazing gusts to come back down upon them and assail their nostrils with pungent smoke.
A call came from Max and Victoria to have their gas masks at the ready. The wisps of what once were the pines were ending up in their lungs and stinging their eyes. Many girls donned their masks without need for the order—the smoke was a good enough indicator for its use. Helmets were fastened, rifles were lined up and angled towards the north, awaiting the terrible possibility.
First, came the familiar rumble of the guns. Shells whistling through the air, rolling and smashing and bursting upon their targets. The pitter-patter of rifles and automatics would rise to a trembling staccato thereafter, and the sound would shift in tangent with the attackers' momentum. Where the Reds broke through, the sound would follow them—where they didn't, it held its place. Their ears have grown so accustomed to the wails of battle, that such things they did not pick up before came clearly to them now.
So every Angel of Blackwell was quick to hear the sudden shift in noise, somewhere to their north. Minutes later, columns of reserves could be seen moving up to the front line, and after this, a detachment of militia with a towed anti-tank gun were brought up and placed behind where the Angels were situated. The men were frantic, and prepared themselves for the inevitable breakthrough.
A line of gravel cut through the asphalt of the street, and weaved its way through the piles of debris that previously comprised the totality of their cover. Here, the rest of the Angels had gathered with their rifles and spare ammunition, and waited for the tussle. The girls knew that whatever protection they had would come from avoiding the bullets entirely, and so they chipped away and made a more formidable position for themselves.
In the middle of their defense line was a crater, formed from a shell that came and went a long time since they had arrived. It had punched right through the asphalt and left a sizable position to focus their defense around. So long as one didn't step into the center, where the rain water had puddled into a slurry of gravel and mud, then they would be as comfortable and protected as can be.
But they were still nervous. The trench-line itself was just wide enough to let one person walk through, meaning no one could move to another position whilst the trench was crowded. Otherwise, they'd have to crawl on their stomachs outside the line and rely on the debris to shield them; an idea that no one placed their trust in.
Alyssa deployed the bipod of her machine gun, and placed the legs of it upon the lip of the crater. Beside the stocky girl, Dana was present with two cans of ammunition for this machine gun, as well as some spare rifle ammunition kept in a satchel across her shoulder. Opposite to her was Juliet, who was grumbling incessantly about the mud she laid next to, and how tempted she was to shovel all of it out of the crater. Watson had with her a pouch containing spare barrels for the machine gun, and a thick glove with which she would use to swap these barrels out.
Further down the line and farthest from the restaurant on the opposite side of the street, River, Emilia and Jenny manned the second machine gun the Angels possessed. It was a domestic, box-like design when compared to the one that Alyssa and the others were using, but it worked, and that was all that mattered to them. River balanced the stock of the machine gun into the crook of her shoulder, whilst Emilia sat close by, two cans full of spare munitions within reach of her. Even now, Jenny was sat opposite to River, and was busy loading a third belt.
Between these two machine guns, the Angels deployed all their riflewomen, spaced as evenly as the trench would allow. The squad-leaders placed themselves strategically, within earshot of as many of their charge as possible.
Despite their incentive to, they did not bicker and complain. They held their tongues, and kept their eyes sharp and steady. Curious glances came from them and the few militiamen that were setting up the heavy gun behind their line.
Max was skeptical of these men and their position. Not because they might inadvertently fire upon her girls—but rather she worried about the necessity of their presence. Why were these men here, and not upon Blackwell's heights, there where they could pound the Red's attack into dust? It didn't make much sense to her, to leave the militia's only heavy gun in the midst of the fallback line—
"So, you gonna talk with them?" Chloe murmured beside her. Her voice was muffled by the gas mask, but just audible enough to be heard.
Max's stahlhelm shifted in acknowledgement, "I…I'm not sure I need to. I think I know why they're here already, and it's bugging me."
"Hm?"
"It means the Reds will be pushing towards us," Caulfield pointed down the street to the north, "and the only way they'll do that is by coming up the Main from that direction."
Their glares from behind the lenses of their gas masks narrowed in anticipation. Shouting alerted them that the militiamen on the AT-gun were as ready as they could be. Black and dark-grey tendrils of ash were morphing the sky into an eerie orange tinge. They watched as the shadows blotted out the light of the sun, minute by minute.
The sound of fire shifted again. Militiamen far out near the tremors of battle could be seen moving back, until they reached the front-lot of the Two Whales Diner. The Angels could see them dive over sandbags and concrete slabs, driven by a panic.
The chunking of a heavy machine gun echoed in the distance, where before they could not make it out from the awful din. It was distinct, and mobile. Soon its echoes were loud enough to guestimate its position—beyond the curve of the road at the farthest intersection from them.
"Is…that ours?" Chloe asked. Her ice-blue eyes tracked the sound as it moved.
Another long burst fired. Red tracers bouncing off something then arched up into the sky, sailing far over their heads. Incoming rounds glistened brightly in the dark clouds.
"No, it's not," Max pulled her stahlhelm off, if only so she could get her mask on.
"Get ready," Caulfield called out to her comrades, "Masks on! Nobody fires until I say so!"
Gas masks were adorned upon their faces, hiding the intensity of their features except for their eyes, which were steeled for the fight. Helmet straps were tightened. Rifles were nudged by their wielders into perfect positions. Prayers were silently whispered.
It was a technical, as the ex-military vets called it. The Reds had mounted a heavy machine gun on the bed of a truck, welded metal plates onto it, and made it so that no small arms could strike the vehicle and keep it immobilized. This became readily apparent when a salvo of small arms fire from the militia was received to no effect, and the squad-leaders began to panic over their lack of anti-vehicle capability. A general withdraw turned quickly into a rout once the Reds realized this, and drove their technical forward to continue its merciless suppression of the defenders.
The first line broke within the first hours of initial contact. The second line, made up of a cluster of fallback positions with overlapping fields of fire, held up for enough time that the reserves could be mustered into their positions. The Reds were desperate for a breakthrough, and threw everything they had at the militia—mortars and heavy guns were raining shells erratically against their hardpoints, and some found their mark with gruesome displays.
The section-leaders gave the orders for a slow withdrawal, and thereby the militia slowly relinquished their hold, selling every inch of ground with gunfire and retaliatory mortar strikes.
The streets were soon caught between the exchange of lead, where militia enacted their fighting retreat past the front lawns of houses, and the Reds chased after them, hoping to catch them as they moved from cover to cover. The technical, though it was the only one the Reds had, was spearheading every push. The heavy machine gun was able to circumvent the militia's improvised defense with lethal and relentless force. Many a man were slain by this mechanical beast, with its terrifying roar and savage bite. Flesh and bone were rendered into bits and pieces, the cries of its victims crushed under the din. Hell had come for them, and they fought against its hold as best they could.
A detachment of militia had split from their company, and made a mad dash down Main Street to avoid being cut down by the incoming wave of attackers. Believing they had the breakthrough they desired, the Reds began a push, their technical making its way to lock down Main Street with its suppressive fire.
The vehicle edged forwards, as Reds lined up behind it for protection, and others more searched for the best piece of cover to hide behind. The wrecks of abandoned cars and trucks lined the sidewalk, and craters in the street were deep enough to house a couple men if they placed themselves correctly. The shadows of the dark-red clouds hid the Reds' features, and turned them into silhouettes, crawling forwards for any sign of the defenders.
The machine gunner in the bed of the truck called out movement; it was a couple of militiamen running for their lives, down the sidewalk and towards a diner. The machine gun swiveled, and the recoil shook the gunner's vision. It was a challenge to see them move amongst the debris, but the tracers did the work for him, lighting up the area and casting a faint glow upon anything and anyone they passed through. The tracers guided his aim, and tore the fleeing militiamen to pieces. The way was open, there was nothing to stop them! Like a tidal wave, the Reds pushed forwards—
A bright-burning shell snapped over the gunner's head, forcing him to duck down. The report of an anti-tank gun echoed down the street a split-second after—
A sudden burst of muzzle flashes and gunfire flickered down the street, from concealed positions. Immediately, the infantry ducked for cover, some poor souls not having the chance to even crouch before bullets ripped them apart. Rifles and machine guns blunted their momentum, and quickly some voices screeched to fall back.
A squad-leader bellowed to the dazed machine gunner for suppression, and so the gunner pulled himself up in the face of withering fire, and lined his sights up—
Red metal hornets zipped down the street, and ricocheted off the asphalt and the shield of the AT-gun, their speed and force tearing the air apart along with anything they struck.
The militia crewing the gun ducked to the ground, the rounds scaring them easily. Cries came over the madness that the group-leader, who had the binoculars and had been attempting to spot the technical through the darkness, was struck down by a tracer to his head, decapitating him and sending his body rolling out of reach of them. Sheer panic took hold under the brutal suppression.
The Angels curled into cover as best they could in the face of this incoming fire. Max flinched as a particular burst of rounds passed overhead, and bounced against the steel-plate shield of the AT-gun, their flight arching up into the dark-red clouds.
This heavy gun was their only hope to defeat that armored beast suppressing them. And while she was tempted to go over and kick the militia into gear so they might save everyone from a horrible fate, she knew that these tracers would find her and cut her down. The Reds recognized the threat this gun presented to them, and concentrated their fire upon it.
Caulfield looks down the line. Most of her sisters were hugging the gravel as best they can. She could see Victoria waving an arm to encourage others surrounding her to try and suppress back, but it was fruitless in the face of this incoming lead torrent.
"Hey!" Max called, but nobody could hear her. Her gas mask was muffling her voice, so she hastily yanked her helmet off and her mask thereafter, "Hey! We gotta take the fire off the militiamen!"
Alyssa heard her, and was keen to getting her machine gun up against the Reds—
The tracers would not give her the chance. A red hornet pinged off the top of Anderson's helmet, knocking her back into the crater's center.
"Alyssa!"
Immediately Max lunged for her, and was assisted by Dana and Juliet—they pulled their friend from the mud, and assessed the damage. A large gash had formed on the top of Alyssa's stahlhelm, where the round had narrowly missed the girl's skull. Yet still, the force was enough to leave a serious abrasion upon Anderson's forehead, and blood was oozing dramatically from this wound. The girl in question was limp in their arms.
"Oh fuck, fucking fuck!"
"S-she's still alive," Max quickly shouted, "We gotta stop the bleeding, help me stop the bleeding—!"
A mortar shell crashed down, and they seized up. Dana and Juliet were too caught up in keeping themselves alive to try and help. Max swore, and realized she needed to reach Victoria further down the line to help her with curtailing the Reds' attack—
Except she didn't need to. Chase had mustered the courage of those around her, and even despite the terror of the enemy's firepower, the Angels on the far side brought their guns to bear on the encroaching attackers. The machine gun manned by River and Emilia let loose with a stream of outgoing rounds, and Max watched the stream of lead crash against the beast's armor plating and stun the gunner.
Now's our chance.
Even though she could not see them, Max called out to the militiamen, "Now, now goddamnit! Get on the gun and shoot that thing before it kills us all!"
The beast roars again. Max ducked instinctually, but it was not her flesh and blood it wished to feast on—tracers smacked against the mounds of debris and harshly whizzed just over the heads of Victoria and the others. Chase was sending her regards back one rifle bullet at a time, and then ducked down to reload—
Caulfield was helpless to witness a red-hot tracer pierce the cover the pixie blonde was ducked behind, her helmet was twisted off her head and the blonde was forcibly sent down into the gravel. Even more red hornets caressed the line, and the Angels' machine gun abruptly fell silent.
Smoke was stinging Max's eyes, but she couldn't help but widen these blue orbs in shock—for it was so sudden that she believed herself to be hallucinating, that it couldn't be true—
"Vic! VIC!"
Max rose to assist—and ducked down as a burst of fire attempted to split her in half, "Vic, can you hear me?!"
She saw Taylor and Courtney lunge for their best friend, but it was hard to tell if there was anything that indicated a lucky break. The worst possibility sapped the brunette of her assuredness, her heart seized in her chest—the Reds had struck down Victoria and the others. The Reds had killed them, just like that! They had robbed her friends out of fulfilling the promise they made!
Caulfield felt the shift in her heart, where despair was crushed and buried under a righteous fury, and the windows to her soul glimmered with hatred.
Lord, give me this one chance—
Her rifle clutched, she raises it up over the edge of cover, and lines it up on a Red soldier who was advancing under the cover of the beast's suppression. It was but a faint moment, fleeting and gone within the blink of an eye, that he noticed the harbinger of his fate with a vicious snarl on her face, molded from shadows in the bright flash of her rifle's muzzle.
The Red dropped to the ground, and Max sneered with delight. A hand of bone, its arm shrouded in a black cloak, had taken her by the shoulder and held her close in a gentle embrace. Another bony hand pointed forth to the advancing Reds, beckoning her to slaughter them as they came. And with fearless endeavor, Caulfield obeyed the commands of this silent messenger of God, and with each cycle of her rifle's bolt she spilled the blood of the attackers. Tracers zipped past her, whispered in her ears how they would break her bones and leave her begging for a merciful end, but she feared nothing they could bring.
A glorious Victory, or a virtuous Death.
"Max, get down!"
Chloe's hand suddenly took hold of her, and brought her down to the bottom of the trench—
THWUM
The AT-gun fired, its shot traveling the distance between the opposing sides in a split-second and impacting the front plate of the technical. A fireball burst from this impact, the armored vehicle being torn into a mass of twisted and smoldering metal and the occupants being charred to a crisp. Bits of shrapnel took the lives of more attackers huddled near the once-formidable beast, drastically reducing the incoming suppression. The Angels felt confident enough to up the ante, and collectively rose up to catch the Reds as they recovered.
And so they laid waste to the attackers; for the Reds were so easily shaken by the destruction of their mechanical asset that they fell into a panicked retreat, and were picked apart by vengeful shots.
"Give 'em hell, girls!" Max cried, spurned by the foe's cowardly rout, "Send them back to where they came from!"
And Caulfield jumped from cover, and tread in the open behind the trench, her words ringing over the crackle of gunfire, "Look and see them run away with fright! Let them hear your cries of vengeance! Cut them down—!"
She is tackled by Chloe, who saves her from a stray burst of tracers zipping overhead. Against Max's wishes, the stronger girl pulls her back into the trench.
"Stay down, stay down goddamnit!" Price shouted into Max's ear, "I'm not going to let you get yourself killed!"
A flare arches up into the sky, and bursts with white luminescence. And it was through the dim shadows of the smoke that Chloe beheld the madness in her best friend's deep blue eyes, and she gasps silently.
"They killed them—they killed my friends!" Max growls over the gunfire, "I want them dead, I want them all dead! They'll pay for what they've done to my friends!"
But a sudden realization came to the mousy brunette—she was closer to where Victoria was, and thus she rolled around to find her fellow squad-leader. Max spotted the huddle of Courtney and Taylor, and they were so engrossed in helping their friend that they noticed not the tracers barely missing them, nor the noise of gunfire surrounding them.
"Vic!" Max slipped from Chloe's grasp, and rose up, "How is she?! Vic—!"
"Max, NO—!"
Price grabbed at her arm and tried to pull her best friend back, but the tracer was too quick to avoid. It struck Caulfield as she turned, right at her center mass. The plate carrier adorning the brunette's torso jerked from the impact, and yanked its owner along with the momentum towards the gravel. Her head, which was not protected by her mask and helmet, smacked and bounced against the lip of asphalt.
NoNoNoNONONO—
Chloe launched herself at Max, and quickly pulled her down into cover.
"Max, Max!"
Price fumbled her hands to release the straps of the brunette's kit, her head was spinning and the flare in the sky was running out of light. She could barely make out Caulfield's shape despite being right next to her.
"Max, talk to me—please say something, anything!"
"What's wrong?!" another voice came from over Chloe's shoulder. She couldn't see their face, but their voice gave away who they were in an instant—
"I need help, help me Kate!" Chloe replied, "It's Max, she's been fucking shot!"
A small beam of light was turned on, and they could see the limpness of Max's form. The brunette's eyes were closed, and a splotch of red was forming on the underside of the armored plate.
Chloe's hands were shaking, her voice was trembling into a panic, "Oh f-fuck—!"
"Let me handle this," Kate pushed her off and set to work, and Chloe knew she could do nothing to help the blonde in the current state she was in. She spared a glance to Taylor and Courtney, who were in much the same predicament that they were in now, and realized how helpless she had become. Like Max, she burned with hatred, and took it out upon the retreating Reds.
Soon enough, the incoming tracers were nonexistent. The Reds had pulled out from the Main, and now were being assaulted by militia from other sectors of the town, further driving them back.
The fight was over.
Chloe eased her grip on her rifle. Slowly, she cast her gaze up to the dark-red overcast, as another flare—a bright green one this time—lit the sky with its similar hue.
Nothing happened. No artillery came whistling overhead. The sounds of battle were shifting away from them. Relieved, Price rested her head in the crook of her arm, the sweat dripping from her dyed-blue bangs.
It was over. They had held the line.
Her breath hitched. A sob burst from her trembling lips. Her eyes stung with fresh tears.
It was over.
