Disclaimer: I am not part of the team who created Trench Crusade, this story was made with the sole purpose of entertainment, any resemblance with reality is just a coincidence.
Trench Crusade: The Last Battle
Chapter I
July 28 of the year of our lord 1914. In the middle of the no mans' land.
He was about to lose consciousness, the sound of a distant detonation made him react. The pain was stabbing, unbearable and spread everywhere, he put his left hand towards the wound in his side, hot blood was gushing out, something had passed through him, everything was very dark.
The light of a distant explosion illuminated the wasteland.
He could see his surroundings, he was sitting on the ground, his back was leaning against the remains of a wall, in front of him he could see the hills, the wooden barricades with barbed wire and rotting corpses embedded in them, he looked up at the sky as the drops of rain fell on his face, but everything went dark again.
The light of an explosion illuminated the wasteland.
Finally, he could see the sky, it was still the same, the clouds were gray and thick as lead, a moment later everything fell into darkness again and only the repetitive sound of raindrops hitting the ground could be heard. Suddenly he heard footsteps that made the ground rumble, they were very heavy, something very big was approaching, he was hit by a nauseating smell, like the smell of rotting meat that had been under the sun for days, he covered his nose and mouth with his right hand making a great effort not to vomit, he took the crucifix that was hanging from his neck, the steps stopped and he could hear the fluttering of thousands of flies, that was in front of him.
The light of an explosion illuminated the area.
For a moment he could see it, it was as tall as a tree, its entire body was covered by enormous protuberances. They were great masses, as big as barrels, bulging heaps of gelatinous flesh that constantly throbbed as if they had a life of their own and were going to burst at any moment. Grotesque humps accumulated on his back from which a purulent liquid gushed out, its skin was porous and had a texture and color similar to silt and mud, in addition, the light reflected on its skin in a strange way, as if it were out of focus, its mere presence contaminated the universe. He wore a helmet with large horns and a plate on his chest with the symbol of the black grail, its fleshless face revealed a sinister smile with long greenish teeth, it was one of the spawns of Beelzebub, a lord of tumors.
The light went out again and he could hear the lord of tumors walking towards him while the sound of the flies and the smell increased.
-My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? (Mark 15:34). - It was the only thing Lieutenant Christopher could say, as he felt the lights go out.
The lord of tumors suddenly stopped.
12 hours before. The vanguard trench of the Principality of New Antioch.
Lieutenant Christopher was waiting by the telegraph when the message finally arrived. The Cardinal General had accepted his request, and in a few more hours, a military convoy would arrive with the respective signed withdrawal order. After this, he left the room dug into the walls of the trench and began to walk for the trench, conducting the routine inspection. At that moment, a pair of trench pilgrims with their iron capirotes stood at attention and performed a military salute when they saw him. He returned the salute in kind. He didn't entirely agree with allowing a group of people without complete military training to join them at the front, but given the current situation, he couldn't be picky.
The lieutenant was a 40-year-old man, but the years of war had aged him. His face and body were marked by multiple scars, and he had lost his left eye. He wore the regulation green uniform with papal emblems and light armor. From his belt hung the sword he had inherited from his father; its hilt was adorned with precious stones and jewels. Once, they shone splendidly under the sun, but now they were so dirty they looked like mere pebbles collected from a path. He gripped the handle with his left hand, having been thinking a lot about the past lately, more than he cared to admit. He sat on a rock for just a moment to rest, but it was enough for sleep to overcome him.
He was back in his childhood, sitting on one of the long wooden benches in the chapel, right next to one of the large windows. As he listened to his instructor, one of the nuns from the local convent, who was reading the Bible to the children preparing for their first communion, he watched a hummingbird flitting among the flowers in the garden.
—Sir. —Sister Alexandra tried to wake him.
Her voice sounded distant and hazy.
'And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. And God saw that the light was good.' (Genesis 1:3)
A hand shook his shoulder.
—Sir, it's almost time to eat.
Hearing Sister Alexandra's voice brought back many memories. He remembered being bedridden, his body burning with fever, the lacerating wound on his shoulder that had become infected. Her hands were tending to his wounds and wiping the sweat from his forehead with a cloth. She was by his side, taking care of him; she was the only person there. He was certain he was going to die—he felt the world slipping away. He had always been told that warriors who died defending the Faith would be rewarded in their final moments, their suffering would be alleviated, and they would be allowed a glimpse of paradise before taking their last breath. He believed it, but he saw nothing and felt only pain. Suddenly, he felt her get up and move away. In a desperate motion, he reached out and grabbed her arm.
-Don't go. -
His voice had been barely a whisper. In retrospect, he felt embarrassed for doing that. To his misfortune, he still remembered it. He knew there were other wounded who needed attention. He felt her return, sit back down by his side, and take his hand.
-I won't leave you. –
The mental fog began to lift, and he returned to the present. He adjusted the patch over his missing left eye, rubbed his right eye, and set his helmet and helm in place.
-I was just... resting my sight. -
She offered her gloved hand to help him up. He took it and stood.
Sister Alexandra was a nun from the convent of Saint Cosmas, and she was the chief officer of the unit's medical team. Her white uniform (which included standard armor) and her habit had large bloodstains that hadn't fully faded. As always, she wore the convent's regulation helm, formed by elongated steel plates that covered her face and included an integrated gas mask. She also wore a metal crucifix around her neck that she never took off. Also she had her medical kit and her Misericordia (a long, sharp combat surgical knife, he had seen her save and end many lives with it, and he had felt it on his own flesh on more than one occasion). Lieutenant Christopher looked at her for a moment; in all these years, he had never seen her face.
-Is something wrong? - she asked.
-No, nothing's wrong. -
She had saved his life, and that made what was about to happen even more saddening for him.
They both moved along the trench as the soldiers let them pass. It was narrow, allowing passage for only three people at a time. The ground was mostly covered in mud; it had once been lined with wood, but it had broken or rotted over time. The walls were reinforced with brick, concrete beams, and wooden planks to prevent collapses. The smell of mud and sludge permeated the entire place.
Christopher carried a small Bible in the pocket of his coat. It had been a gift for his first communion and also a farewell gift when he left for military school and headed to New Antioch. As he reminisced, he looked up at the sky, recalling the day he first entered New Antioch. Coming from a small fief, he had never seen such a large city. He was amazed by the enormous buildings, the factories with their large chimneys spewing smoke incessantly, the wide avenues crowded with people from all corners of the Christian world, and the noisy motor carriages that had frightened his horse.
When he arrived, he imagined that one day, in some battle, the skies would suddenly open, and armies of angels, wrapped in divine radiance, would descend—sent by God to help them fight against the heretics. Then they would all advance in a glorious final crusade to close the portal to hell in Jerusalem and end the Great War. How naive he had been. (Everyone had heard the rumors of an angel descending from the sky in some distant trench, but when investigated, only a few burned corpses or bodies with signs of suicide were found.) The sky was covered with thick clouds, as gray as lead.
Of course, he wasn't the only one who had thought about this. Over time, he had heard some theories, the most popular being that angels were simply too powerful—that their mere presence would destroy everyone, believers and heretics alike. But that couldn't be the reason; in the Bible, there are many instances where angels are sent to help specific people. A pair of angels went to warn Lot before destroying Sodom and Gomorrah and spent the night in his house (Genesis 19), and an angel saved Daniel from a group of lions he was thrown in with (Daniel 6:22).
When he was given the Bible, he began reading it eagerly whenever he could, and it wasn't quite what he had expected.
"Now go, attack the Amalekites and totallydestroyall that belongs to them. Do not spare them; put to death men and women, children and infants, cattle and sheep, camels and donkeys" (1 Samuel 15:3).
Was God ordering them to kill children and infants? This can't be right. Those children were innocent of their parents' sins, weren't they? ... There must be an explanation, but from my limited understanding of the world, I cannot comprehend God's perfect plan.
He had told himself this and repeated it with many other verses. But there was one in particular that left him bewildered: Mark 15:34, where Jesus looks to the sky and says that God has abandoned him. But Jesus is the Son of God—why would God abandon him, even for a moment? To him, it made no sense, but there must be an explanation; it must be part of God's perfect plan.
He had once thought about discussing this with someone, but he soon discovered that many of the soldiers couldn't read or write, and their only knowledge of the Bible came from the verses chosen by the clergy. In many parts of Europe, reading the Bible was directly forbidden for anyone who wasn't a priest. Moreover, such questions could lead him to the gallows. But it didn't matter; in the end, there would be an explanation, and everything would make sense.
Finally, they arrived at the nook they used as a kitchen and dining area. They, along with the unit's cleric, moved to the front of the line as they were the highest-ranking members. It had been a long time since sufficient rations had arrived from New Antioch, so for almost two weeks now—shortly after they were sent to the front trench—they had been eating rat meat (in the trenches, rats were never scarce, so food was never scarce, as some combat engineer had jokingly said—if only it were true). It wasn't the worst thing they had eaten; during the years of war, especially in the harsh winters, they had had to loot innocent settlements to survive, knowing they were dooming them by taking away their only sustenance. ('Our Lord will compensate these people in paradise; it is a donation to continue the fight against the heretics,' the unit's cleric had said).
The yeoman who served as the cook handed each of them a plate with two rats that had been skinned and had their tails removed before being roasted. But before eating, they were going to pray. Everyone prayed quietly with their heads bowed, asking for various things. Christopher, like most, prayed for the well-being of his family (or at least that they were still alive), but he also asked for something particular. He prayed to the Lord to send him back to the year 1099, where he would stop the traitorous Templars from committing the greatest heresy and would prevent 800 years of war.
When they finished praying, everyone listened to a sermon from the cleric.
Cleric Johan Christian was a tall, robust man with broad shoulders and a bushy beard. (Christopher liked to think that this is how the biblical Moses must have looked.) He wore his green armor with a large wooden cross hanging on his back. On his shoulders were plates engraved with the Psalms. He was a tough man who could keep a cool head even in the worst situations. Over the years, Christopher had seen him perform miraculous healings, though not so many as to do away with combat medics. As always, he recited a passage from the New Testament from memory:
"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened. Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake?" (Matthew 7:7-10).
Jesus Christ said that we will receive what we ask for in our prayers, so why hasn't this war ended if we've all asked for it? The Lord has His reasons, we will never understand the reasons of our Lord. His ways are inscrutable.
Christopher pushed those thoughts away as he always did. The sermon ended, and they began to eat (as usual, Sister Alexandra went to a corner by herself, lifting her mask just enough to eat). The rat meat was bland and earthy, with a texture that was dry and dense. The water they drank tasted like gasoline due to poorly washed containers. Christopher looked at the pilgrim communicant (the anti-tank communicants were much more expensive) standing in the middle of the trench, who rarely ate. Gigantic and muscular, his skin was as gray as iron, his head covered by a veil, with a cross driven into his eyes as a sign of faith. Several skulls of his victims hung from his back. He leaned on that enormous club, murmuring phrases in ancient Hebrew. The communicant evoked a mix of respect and fear; in combat, he was brutal—they had seen him crush skulls with ease. Moreover, he had consumed the flesh and blood of the Meta-Christ, clones created from the Messiah's blood. What must it feel like? Does it hurt? What is he thinking? The lieutenant kept looking at the communicant, unsure if he wanted to know the answers to those questions.
After this, Christopher gave orders to prepare as soon as possible for an offensive. He tried to communicate with the artillery battalion and managed to reach a lieutenant, who said they had their own orders and therefore could not promise to provide support in combat. There were still several hours before nightfall, so they began checking the various rifles and machine guns they had. They already had a set strategy for such situations. The pilgrims sacrificed a lamb and began anointing themselves with its blood, while Christopher and the engineers checked the hydraulic systems of the sacred mechanical armor of the mechanized infantry, and the sniper priests prayed over their rifles and ammunition.
Then the Feldpost (the military postal service) arrived, along with an armored vehicle for transporting recruits. Since they had no casualties yet, someone was going to be replaced and sent back to New Antioch. Shortly afterward, Sister Alexandra approached him, holding a letter.
- Can we talk in private? - She asked Lieutenant Christopher, anger evident in her voice.
- Of course. - He left the rest of the work to the engineers, and they both headed to a small room dug into one of the trench walls, which they used as a headquarters for planning strategies and meetings with high command. It was just a room dug into the earth, lined with wood, with a large table and some chairs, dimly lit by a candle placed in the center of the table. She began to confront him.
- My 'performance has not been optimal lately'?! I've performed my duties the same as always. Why didn't you tell me anything before requesting my replacement? - She said, her voice filled with clear anger, rarely abandoning formalities.
If anyone else in the unit had spoken to him like that, he would have punched them in the mouth, at the very least. Christopher removed his helmet and placed it on the table, feeling a sense of relief as he took that piece of metal off his head. He did so with the intent of showing he was being completely honest.
-I didn't send that letter because you're doing your job poorly. -
-Then why? -
He looked her in the eyes.
- I could be hanged for what I'm about to tell you. A few months ago, the Holy Church sent one of the Paladins—may the Lord bless them—on a high-risk secret mission: to descend into Hell and kill a greater demon from the third circle. He succeeded, but the heretics won't let this go without attempting to take revenge. Lieutenant Johannes Venturini, the leader of the squad stationed here at the vanguard trench, used his contacts to be transferred elsewhere. That's why they sent us here. Based on the pictographs obtained by the artificial stars, we know the heretics are preparing for a major offensive, probably tonight. That's also why no one was sent to replace you or the other sisters of the medical division. -
She quickly understood what he meant.
- I would gladly die fulfilling my duty. -
- I know, but I don't want you to die in this hole, Alexandra. - He had an entire speech prepared, but in the end, the truth just came out of his mouth.
- ...Why didn't you tell me earlier? -
- I knew you wouldn't agree. -
- I'm going to disobey this order. I'm staying. -
- No, you won't. -
- Are you going to order the soldiers to take me to New Antioch by force? -
- If you leave me no other choice, yes. -
- ¿Do you expect me to simply leave, knowing I'm abandoning you all to face the forces of Hell alone? -
- I... I've seen too many people die in horrible ways. You know that better than anyone. (In all the years of war, they'd seen many things, but the worst was the black grail—lakes of blood, pulsating flesh, twisted limbs, and hundreds of voices screaming in agony.) I've grown accustomed to it, especially when those new recruits arrive, their heads filled with heroic war stories, medals, honors, and then they see the reality. It is the worst part. I already know how they are going to die, and I know I will be there when it happens, unable to do anything to save them. But you... you're very important to me... We've been through so much together in this damned place. You're the only friend I have left, and... I don't want to see you die."
She remained silent for a moment, unsure of what to say. Finally, she shook her head disapprovingly.
- You should've told me earlier. -
- Could you take off your mask? -
The question surprised her; she didn't expect him to ask that.
- Is that an order? -
- No, I'm asking it as a favor. But you don't have to if you don't want to. -
- Why do you want me to take off my mask? -
- All this time, I've never seen your face. I'd like to see you before we part ways. -
Slowly, she began to remove her habit and then the mask, her hands trembling. When she was transferred to his unit, they informed him she had been the only survivor of her previous unit. They didn't say what had happened, and he hadn't wanted to pry—but now he understood. The first thing he noticed was that she had no nose or ears. Her skin was covered with the reddish scars of chemical burns, blisters, and had a scaly texture. In several places, there were stitched scars where the skin had torn and been sewn back together. Her head was covered with several patches of what had once been long, brown hair. He knew instantly what it was: the effects of mustard gas—probably a surprise attack when they weren't prepared, or a failure in her gas mask. She had been very lucky not to have lost her eyelids or lips. She remained silent, looking at the ground.
Christopher only wanted to comfort her. He thought of telling her not to be ashamed of her scars—that they were a mark of her courage and faith, and she would be rewarded in paradise—but he knew she had likely heard that dozens of times before. Finally, the lieutenant spoke again.
- I wanted to look into your eyes, to thank you for saving my life and for... staying with me. - He extended his right hand, intending to shake hers. - It was an honor to serve by your side, Sister Alexandra. -
Suddenly, she hugged him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He hugged her tightly. It had been many years since he had received a hug; he had forgotten what human contact felt like. The last hug he received was from his mother when he left home.
A part of him never wanted to let her go. For a moment, he thought of escaping; he saw it all in his mind. They would both leave quickly, get into the armored vehicle while the soldiers were distracted smoking, and escape. He could hear the sounds of bullets ricocheting off the metal plates as he pressed the accelerator. Afterward, he'd be excommunicated, and there'd be a price on his head—but none of that mattered as long as she was by his side. They would flee to the Mediterranean, to one of the small fishing villages... He quickly dismissed those thoughts. He knew he couldn't do that, and he knew she would never desert.
After what felt like an eternity, she lifted her head, and they looked each other directly in the eyes. Their faces were only a few centimeters apart, and they stared at each other intensely... Finally, they pulled away, both knowing they couldn't go any further due to their vows. She stepped back a bit, took the crucifix from around her neck, and put it on Christopher.
- This crucifix was given to me by my mother when I was sent to the convent; it's the only thing I have left of her. - She said as she placed the crucifix on his neck.
- I can't keep it. It's the only thing you have of your... - Said the lieutenant, trying to remove the crucifix.
- No, - She stopped him, taking his hands, - Keep it. When my mother gave it to me, she said it would protect me... I want you to have it. I want to have faith that it will protect you, and that we will meet again. -
-…Thank you. I promise I will wear it when the battle begins. - He said, holding the crucifix hanging from his neck.
They both wanted to say more, wanted to say hundreds of things at the same time, but they knew it wouldn't change anything. She took her helmet and her habit and put them back on.
- I wish everything had been different. - Sister Alexandra finally said.
- So do I. - The lieutenant replied.
She looked at him one last time before leaving through the door.
He sat down and watched as the candle in the center of the table slowly burned out.
He left the quarters. The convoy was already gone, taking the entire medical division without leaving any replacements. Now, everyone knew what was going to happen.
He began walking among the groups of soldiers preparing in the trench's passages toward the machine gun nest, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, and once again, he began to remember.
His father was a feudal lord. Christopher spent his childhood with him and the knights of his court. He spent the mornings strengthening his body, learning to ride horses, fight with a sword, or just with his fists, hunt, use weapons, and learn the basics of military strategy. He remembered his father, strong and confident. He often dueled with swords against other knights and always won. His sword, adorned with gold and precious stones, gleamed in the sunlight, and he often spoke of how he inherited it from his grandfather and that one day it would be Christopher's. But he would have to pass a test to prove he was worthy of wielding it and bearing the family name.
After a long day, he would return home, where his mother awaited him with a delicious meal. Those had been the best moments of his life. Occasionally, he would hear news of the war. Little by little, he learned what was happening. In distant lands, there was a portal to hell itself, and soldiers from all over the known world fought to contain the advances of heretics and demons. He didn't fully understand it at the time. "If God is on our side, we have nothing to worry about. In the end, we will win," he had told himself.
Sometimes he liked to slip away with his horse to explore, venturing beyond the routes he knew. On one occasion, he reached a small village of peasants and was very surprised by the poverty and filth in which those people lived. His father scolded him harshly for that incident.
One day, while riding, he strayed from the path and saw the great stone wall that separated the king's domain from the rest of the world. One of the knights told him the truth: that wall was to prevent the heretics from entering, and one day he would have to face them. The Vatican demanded that noble families give at least one healthy son for the defense of Holy New Antioch and all of God's work. All this time, they had been preparing him. At first, he thought it was just a joke.
One morning, when he was thirteen, some time after completing his first communion, the servants woke him up earlier than usual, saying they were acting on his father's orders. They then took him to the county's courthouse. Inside were his father and his court, along with the judge and a peasant who was immobilized in a pillory in the center of the room. The man was shouting and protesting. His father spoke loudly for all to hear.
- This peasant has been found guilty of stealing the tributes destined for His Majesty and attacking our guards. Normally, execution by beheading is reserved for members of the nobility, but today the judge is feeling merciful. -
Then he addressed Christopher, drawing his sword and holding it by the blade, offering him the hilt.
- You will execute the criminal. -
Christopher stood frozen. Seeing no response, his father put his hand on his shoulder and approached him.
- Listen, son. We are at war, a war against hell, and you will be sent to the front. In this world, there are winners and losers, some above and others below; it is natural, it is God's order. If you want to survive, you must do whatever it takes. I told you that you would have to pass a test if you wanted to prove yourself worthy. This is the test. -
He placed the sword in Christopher's hands. Christopher felt all eyes on him as he slowly advanced towards the man who continued to shout. He raised the sword and delivered the first blow. The man stopped shouting. It felt as if an electric current was running through his arms. He felt the skin and muscles tear, then the bones, and saw the thick blood begin to flow. It took him six blows with all his strength; the head hung by a piece of flesh and skin. Then his father approached him, took the sword from his hands before he could let it drop, and began leading him toward the exit. Christopher could barely move on his own.
- It gets easier the more you do it. -
He wasn't sure who had said that—his father or perhaps one of the members of his court—but whoever had said it was right. He had spent much time in the company of death.
He reached the improvised machine gun nest, which was a small circular wall, and turned towards the enormous concrete cross that rose behind them on a hill.
As he watched the cross, he continued to remember, the piece of shrapnel that lodged in his eye, he remembered one time when they were repairing the trench and suddenly the head of the soldier who was next to him exploded, hit by a bullet, he was a certain corporal Hitler. Christopher threw himself to the ground immediately, he could feel the hot blood on his face. On another occasion he received several new recruits and they were sent to the front, they were peasants who had been forcibly recruited and that was the first time they had fought, the fear was palpable, everyone was about to run away, the lieutenant was standing still. right behind them with a rifle in his hands and two members of the sacred mechanized infantry with machine guns were at his side.
- You have two options: if you advance, the heretics might kill you; if you try to flee, we will most certainly kill you. –
He told them, when the battle started, some tried to flee and he had to kill them, at that point he didn't even care, it was just his duty, if one ran away they would all run away, they all died that night. He also remembered all those heretics he had killed and those aberrations from hell that he saw again in his nightmares, a part of him wanted it all to end.
But, above all, he remembered when they attacked a heretic camp, they ambushed them in the middle of the night, they eliminated everyone quickly, but they found a group of children between 2 and 12 years old, they were being trained to send them to the gate of hell and become the next generation of infernal soldiers, the instructions from the high command were very clear: "Take no prisoners." He entered the room where they had been housed, he had a gun in his hand, they were all together, crowded in a corner, then a boy of approximately 8 years old lunged at him with the intention of stabbing him with a knife, Christopher raised the gun and he pulled the trigger, their screams drowned out by the sound of gunshots.
If only the First Heresy had never occurred, if only Heaven had sent an angel, a saint, anything to stop those traitors when they opened the gates of hell, everything would be different. No one would have to suffer, no one would have to be in these damned trenches fighting and dying in an endless war. Christopher knew that he was no longer innocent, but at that moment, there were thousands, perhaps millions of innocent people around the world who were about to be sent to kill and die in these horrible trenches for a sin they did not commit.
But there must be an explanation, there has to be an explanation for all of this. On Judgment Day, when all souls are judged, everything will be explained, and everything will make sense, right?
Then, the lieutenant lowered his gaze and saw the cleric coming towards him. He imagined he would say something about heaven and eternal reward, but at that moment, that speech no longer comforted him.
- Christopher, I know... it's not much consolation, but for what it's worth" – He extended his right hand – It was an honor to serve by your side. -
Christopher gave a slight smile.
- The honor was all mine. - He said as he shook his hand.
They quickly hugged, and each placed a hand on the other's shoulder while smiling; it was the kind of brotherhood only two men who had fought side by side could share. Then the communicant approached, carrying his club on his shoulder. He stopped in front of them, lowered the club so that one end rested on the ground, and placed both hands on the other. They both stepped back and looked at him, unsure of what would happen. Then the communicant nodded in respect, and the lieutenant and the cleric returned the gesture. Soon all the soldiers did the same, facing the communicant and bowing their heads. They had all accepted their fate and would face it together.
"Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me." (Psalm 23:4-6)
Everyone took up their weapons and put on their helmets with gas masks. Deep down, they all knew that this was going to be the night; something was about to happen.
In the machine gun nest, the holy members of the mechanized infantry prepared the heavy Gatling gun, while two others prepared their own portable machine guns to provide support.
All the soldiers positioned themselves along the walls of the trench around the machine gun nest, standing on the firing steps so they could place their weapons over the trench parapets. The lieutenant and the cleric stood side by side, readied their rifles, and placed them on the parapets.
It was starting to get dark, and the temperature began to drop quickly. The lieutenant watched through the scope of his rifle. The wasteland before them was desolate after years of war, covered in frozen mud, craters from explosions, ruins, and half-destroyed barricades with barbed wire and rotting corpses. The ground was a mix of browns and grays, and scattered across the landscape were thousands of black stones and rocks that looked like the gravestones of all those who had perished there. The heretics were somewhere between one and two kilometers in front of them, but they didn't know exactly where.
Suddenly, about a kilometer in front of them, a fog began to form. It started almost imperceptibly, but within a few minutes, it had become very thick, like an immaterial white curtain that stretched across the horizon.
Then, they heard it. It started as a shrill noise but grew louder and louder and louder, seemingly endless. It was the screams of absolute agony from thousands of shredded throats—the infernal choristers. They still couldn't see them, but everyone had heard them many times, though it was impossible to get used to that cacophony.
Many soldiers' ears began to bleed, and that sound caused waves of excruciating pain in the bodies of all who heard it. Then the infernal visions began: the minds of all the soldiers filled with images of millions of cadaverous faces being consumed by flames, boiled in blood or tar, buried alive, all screaming in absolute agony for all eternity. The lieutenant and the cleric clenched their teeth so tightly they felt they were going to break.
- Start praying! - Shouted the lieutenant.
Praying was the best way to try to stop the visions caused by the choristers' voices.
"Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."
In the visions they saw rains of fire and millions of torn and charred bodies, still moving and screaming.
"Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."
Dozens of assault beasts began to emerge from the fog, they looked like very large and deformed wolves, with thick black bristly fur and metal plates that had been welded directly onto their skin, their twisted snouts had been turned into circular saws that spun at a violent speed inside their mouths, covered by the dried blood of their victims. They advanced directly towards them with long strides, emitting roars and growls of absolute rage mixed with the deafening roar of the saws, while foam erupted from their snouts.
Christopher was looking directly at one of them through the scope of his rifle, he could see their jaws opening and closing violently as he ran, but they shouldn't shoot yet, they had to wait until they were less than 300 meters away.
- 500 meters! – A combat engineer shouted.
In the middle of the plain there was a black, pointed rock that served as the 300 meters mark, they were getting closer and closer.
- 300 meters! – The engineer shouted.
- In the name of Jesus Christ! - They all shouted when they started shooting.
The wasteland was illuminated with the flash of weapons. The head of the assault beast that was right in front of Christopher exploded in a rain of blood, bones and pieces of metal when it was hit by the bullet, its body collapsed and spun a few times before another beast passed over it. his. The heavy machine gun began to fire, the sound of thousands of bullets echoed everywhere, the assault beasts began to fall, then the heretical troops began to jump out of their trench, wearing black uniforms, twisted masks with eyes as dark as their souls. Their armor adorned with the symbol of a hell lord, stuffed babies and other aberrations, they began to advance and shoot, some tried to crawl on the ground to reach the line but grenades and Molotov cocktails began to fall on them as they approached.
Behind them, the anointed heavy infantry, were huge and very strong, wearing heavy armor, rusted by dried blood from dozens of previous battles, helmets with large horns and plumes, their bodies were covered with sores and burned skin and charred a black red color, covered in scabs and dead skin, as if they had been burned with the purest hatred, using machine guns they began to shoot, these were much more resistant but the amount of shots began to destroy their armor and pierce their skin.
The heretics were trying to reach the trench, they began to fall down due to the rain of bullets, but they got closer and closer, soon the members of the mechanized infantry began to fire with their machine guns, dozens of destroyed bodies began to fall to the ground emanating blood, driving the heretics back once more.
Christopher felt that his heart was beating so hard that it was going to explode, despite the helmets and masks, the sound of the hundreds of shots was deafening and could be felt to the bones, the heat emanating from the weapons was suffocating, some enemy's bullets were whistling over his head, Christopher strategically looked for those who came closest to eliminate them, heretical troops were easy, usually a shot to the head was enough, but now he had a member of the heavy infantry, he walked slowly but surely, firing bursts of bullets from a machine gun, he wore heavy armor made up of plates and around his neck he had a chain with several severed heads of his victims, these were skulls with rotten flesh attached in some parts, they had their jaws open which gave the impression that they were constantly screaming in terror. Christopher was aiming straight for his head. This heretic was huge. He had already shot him several times but the bullets bounced off or embedded themselves in his helmet. He looked like a tank, but he knew that even the toughest of tanks has a breaking point.
Christopher ran out of bullets, he quickly reached his hand to the ammunition hole in the trench wall and took a grenade, the anointed one was aiming directly at his position, he pressed the trigger and the barrels of the machine gun began to turning about to fire again, Christopher pulled the safety off the grenade and threw it, the grenade exploded right in front of the anointed man's face and he collapsed with his skull destroyed.
Then, he saw something that seemed to have come out of some pit of hell, a heretic priest appeared in the middle of the battlefield riding a horribly deformed horse, he was wearing a helmet, a long black miter, metal shoulder pads, armor and a long black cape. The horse had no skin, its muscles were visible and swollen and some of them detached from the body and moved in the air like horrible tentacles, flames sprang from its eyes, mouth and nose, it ran at full speed towards them, the priest held a spear in his left hand, like a knight about to enter a joust.
- He went crazy, the flames of hell must have fried his brain. –
Christopher said to himself, at that moment a sniper priest's blessed bullet pierced the horse's skull, it collapsed and its rider rolled on the ground. Christopher quickly reloaded his rifle and fired again, he finally had hope, maybe, they could survive that night.
Then, he heard a loud whistle coming from the sky, his heart stopped for a moment, he immediately knew what it was, he heard a loud roar on the left side of the trench when the bomb exploded, the light from the explosion blinded them momentarily and then he heard the shouts of his soldiers. They were artillery witches, the enemy had artillery support and they did not, at that moment he lost all hope.
The explosion caused the shots to stop momentarily in the left section of the trench, the heretics took advantage of it to throw grenades and gas bombs, and then, to run and jump within the defense line, in the darkness of the trench started a massacre, they fought with swords, knives, bayonets, rifles, pistols, clubs with nails. Among the screams of hatred, bones were broken, skulls were fractured, people were stabbed and the floor of the trench began to fill with blood.
The mechanized infantry began to fight against the anointed, the anointed roared and the power armor motors resonated as they exchanged powerful blows with swords, axes, maces and shields.
Trench pilgrims, war prophets and yeomen fought against the heretical troops.
The castigators, shock troops and stigmatic nuns were trying to stop the assault beasts.
A sin-eater, large and bloated in heavy coal-black armor, unleashed bestial blows with his mallet while emitting grotesque guttural sounds and savage growls, his teeth resembling dozens of razors. A mechanized infantryman fought against him with a heavy sword, sparks flying when the weapons collided with blows of pure hatred.
An anointed jump into the trench, he carried a hell blade, when he cut someone with it, even if it was just a touch, his body began to burn from the inside, flames began to come out of his mouths and eyes and his skin began to burn. The anointed one began to run through the trench laughing maniacally, destroying everyone, leaving behind a trail of charred bodies.
A stigmatic nun clad in armor that shone like starlight bravely faced him, holding her sword with both hands in a medium guard, he smiled and began to unleash brutal blows against her, she was very fast, she dodged and blocked the blows as best as she could while backing away but she was clearly at a disadvantage, a combat engineer jumped at the anointed one's neck and began firing an automatic pistol directly between the armor plates that covered his neck, the bullets were piercing his flesh. He tried to remove it from his neck and the nun took advantage of the distraction to give him a downward blow that sliced off his arm where he was carrying the blade. A castigator shot him with a shotgun, making a hole in his stomach.
The communicant brandished his enormous club covered with chains, destroying the heretics who entered the trench, suddenly, a death commando appeared a few meters in front of him, thin, with very long arms, he was very fast. He did not make a sound and moved like a shadow. Multiple plates of black metal formed a segmented armor that encased his head, giving the impression that he had no face. In his hands, he carried the Tartarus claws—long, metallic claws that glistened like molten metal. He stood there in silence, in an animalistic stance, like a leopard stalking its prey.
Both opponents looked at each other for a moment, both covered in the blood of their enemies, then they launched themselves against the other, the communicant tried to hit him with a devastating hit from the chains of his club, the commando dodged it, jumped over a piece of rubble and threw a brutal blow towards his neck, the communicant covered himself with his club that was shattered by the blow, he threw it to the ground. The commando began to throw blows while the communicant blocked them with his gauntlets and tried to land a punch and suddenly the commando disappeared into the shadows, the communicant remained with his fists closed, waiting for the surprise attack. The commando attacked him from behind, making a huge jump to try to reach his head. To his surprise, the communicant turned and grabbed his left arm, crushing his bones. The commando began stabbing the communicant's head and neck with his right hand's claws to try to free himself, the communicant took his right arm and slammed him against the ground and then crushed the commando's chest with his left foot, then he began to pull his arms, the commando began to writhe in pain while he felt his bones, muscles and tendons were broken.
אעשה בהם את נקמתי
העליונה, הם יחוו את
עונשי ואת כעסי; וידעו כי אני ה' (Ezekiel 25:17)
The communicant said, speaking in Hebrew, while he tore the commando's arms off and crushed his head with his other foot, only then did the commando stop moving. The heretical troops began to surround the communicant and shoot him, but he quickly grabbed one of them by the leg and used him as a club to crush the others.
The lieutenant and the cleric continued shooting at those who were trying to reach the trench, the heretical soldiers managed to enter, the cleric stabbed one of them with a trench knife, and the lieutenant shot another with the rifle, he turned to see how the heretic priest jumped into the trench, he had managed to crawl across the moor, the heretic began to recite a spell, the lieutenant knew how dangerous it was and immediately attacked him, hitting him in the neck with the butt of the rifle, the heretic fell to the ground and the lieutenant jumped on top of him and continued hitting him in the neck, breaking his windpipe.
"A new commandI give you: Love one I have loved you" (John 13:34)
Quickly, the lieutenant reloaded his rifle, but then they were struck by a great explosion—a bomb had fallen nearby. Christopher fell to the ground, almost losing consciousness. He was covered in dirt, and as he got up, he saw the corpse of the cleric, a rock had shattered his head.
The machine gun nest had been destroyed, and the large concrete cross had fallen with a loud crash.
Christopher felt rage burning inside him; he knew he was going to die that night, but he wouldn't go without getting revenge. He picked up his rifle from the ground and tore off his gas mask to see better, jumped out of the trench, and began running towards the right flank, taking advantage of the brief moments of light caused by the explosions to shoot at the heretics trying to bring him down.
At that moment, from the corridor leading to the second trench, a terrible metallic roar was heard—the furious roar of an engine, gears spinning wildly, pistons screeching, pumping oil with fury and releasing a column of black smoke behind it. An Anchorite sanctuary entered the battle, charging like a train—a massive hulk of metal, with a gothic cathedral tower. It entered the combat, delivering devastating blows with the bone-crushing hammer, which was as thick and large as a post, and the Catherine wheel with an ecclesiastical prisoner, delivering devastating blows that shattered the heretics while the witches began aiming their shots at it.
Christopher ran across the wasteland shrouded in darkness when he was struck by the cursed chants of a chorister. He was about to fall to the ground while tormented by terrible visions—he could see endless seas of boiling blood where millions of bodies writhed, barely more than skeletons with traces of charred skin. For an instant, he thought he glimpsed his father, now terribly emaciated, a corpse screaming in pain. The light of an explosion allowed him to see the chorister running towards him, wrapped in a black robe. From the veins and arteries of his severed neck spewed streams of dry and coagulated blood that moved like thousands of insects, crunching, crawling over each other, forming in the air the cursed shapes of the accursed chants. In his right hand, the chorister held a long sacrificial dagger, and in his left, he carried his own head—little more than a skull covered with dry, gray skin, with dozens of yellowish worms writhing in the empty sockets of the eyes, nose, and lipless jaw. The chorister ran towards him with spasmodic, erratic movements, making him look like a broken puppet. The lieutenant endured the pain, raised his weapon, and fired—the bullet shattered the chorister's head, silencing him. The lieutenant ran towards him and kicked him in the stomach, sending him flying backward into a crater.
Christopher kept running. He knew the odds were against him, and his only chance was to flank the witch and attack her from behind. He knew he was going to die, but he will take that witch with him.
