I finally edited and revised chapter 4. It will need a bit more love, but I wanted to share it with you!
Chapter 4
Griff shook the remnants of the memory from his head as they walked. The flashbacks were harder to suppress and he found himself thinking desperately about drowning them in whiskey. He and the alien had found a break in the barren, ruinous landscape and decided to use this small rocky outcrop as shelter while they ate lunch. The large rock formation provided respite from the orbisun that burned overhead and a place to lean against while they ate. As Griff sipped from his canteen the Death Eater walked around, seeming to study the nearby surroundings.
Griff hated watching them eat. Hated knowing what they ate. They were vultures in the truest sense of the word. They ate carrion and rot and god did it fucking stink. The foul stench of rancid meat hung around them like a curtain while it ate. They had no preference over the source of their food, either, and at the peak of the war intelligence had discovered that POW camps doubled as cattle farms. The worst part about watching them eat wasn’t the smell, though. It was the way their jaws moved. The lower jaw was set into their chest, and when their mouths opened the upper jaw actually hinged up. Rows of small shark-like teeth lined the upper jaw and the lower chest-jaw area. Tiny little blades set into their neck and chest cavity designed to shred their foul sustenance into much smaller particles before it hit their insides. Griff had seen their insides on more than one occasion, but at no point did he stop to consider what their organs did or how they worked.
Griff got up, quickly bored with sitting and leaning. He walked around as he ate, but stayed under the shade of the outcropping as much as he could, and he took the opportunity to remove his hat briefly and let the air touch the sweat that had covered his head. He took a nibble of some of the rations he purchased from Tom and a sip of water then made a conscious effort to pack everything back up.
“What is this?” he heard the alien’s raspy whisper in his head.
Griff walked around the rocks to where the alien was, he closed his pack back up and set it against the rocks as he looked to the alien.
“We are going to need to get moving soon. There’s a way station a few miles from here. A little saloon with rooms. We’ll need to stop there. It will be a little early, but that’s the last stop for at least another day.” Griff spoke as he eyed the creature realizing that it wasn’t listening to him. Griff stared briefly, then followed its gaze.
It was standing there, staring at a small break in the formation of rocks. A little alcove was nestled between some of the larger rocks, like a little secret someone was trying to keep. The dirt leading into it was stamped with heavy traffic, much more than the typical signs of traffic a lonely oasis like this should have. Griff continued to study the area, his jaw tightened as he scanned the alcove, and he noticed a piece of sheet metal leaning against a dark rock that looked out of place. It looked like someone had marked the area, the rock itself was the wrong shape, size, and texture. Griff touched it, and realized instantly that it was fake, some sort of construct that had a piece of sheet metal leaning tightly against it. He looked over the sheet metal, and he studied the pile of genuine rocks in front of it, presumably to keep the metal in place.
“Fuck.” Was the only thing that came out of Griff’s mouth, his head sank down as he spoke, reality hitting him.
The alien looked to him when the word escaped his mouth, and it had the same realization that Griff did.
“Wilders?” The alien asked.
“Yeah. And with this much traffic through here, they aren’t far off.” He raised his head, adjusted his hat, and began checking his pistol. As the words left his mouth the faint noise of engines echoed through the air.
“What are the odds?” Were the words that flashed through Griff’s mind, but only one escaped his lips, “Shit”.
The Death Eater raised his head and peered around the rock, its white disk eyes focused on the cloud of dust swirling up on the horizon. It also readjusted its hat, glanced a side-eye at Griff then crouched down behind the rocks.
“Run?” The alien asked as it looked back again at Griff. It watched as the man thumbed the cylinder of his revolver open, checked the rounds and then closed it again.
“Where? There’s nothing but open landscape, and I’m definitely not climbing in that.” Griff said with disdain as he pointed to the sheet metal covering that was leaned against the rocks. He knew what was likely to be in there, and he wanted no part of it.
“It’s a small cave?” The alien asked, its gaze darting from the cloud that was closing on on them and then back to Griff.
“Yeah. But stop. Think. It isn’t empty. It is too obvious to be hiding anything of value, and if there was nothing in there, why close it off?”
I’ll be god-damned if I have to climb into that hell hole, Griff thought
They both stopped speaking. The alien concentrated, its eyes shifting as it did whatever it was doing. Griff stared, wondering what it was the alien was trying to focus so hard on. While they stood there facing each other the distant growl of the engines grew louder. Suddenly the alien whispered into Griff’s head.
“I see.” was all it said
“Don’t go getting ideas. We aren’t going in there. I don’t care how fucking hungry you are. Goddamned rotters will eat me.” Griff spoke aloud. He refused to have mental conversations with the alien, preferring to verbalize his words.
“Rotters. Interesting term.” it looked at him with what Griff felt was a quizzical expression.
They continued staring at each other for another moment, while they did the distant growl of the engines became a low roar. The wilders were getting closer and they would need to make a decision.
Griff shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then seemed to relax as he spoke
“Look. We fight them. I know you can blast shit with your mind. We can catch them by surprise. We can take them out, and have a vehicle. We can get to Sanctuary faster. We can probably ride to a waystation then be there tomorrow. You can fight, can’t you?”
“There are 10 of them. And at least one is attuned. There’s a chance they already know we are here.” The Death Eater replied, “But yes, I can fight.”
Griff sighed a long deep sigh, “I don’t reckon we’ve got another choice, other than walking out with hands up and surrendering. Pretty sure that just gets us a ticket down into the rot-hole, though”
Griff once again had found himself unable to stand still. He began pacing back and forth in the cover of the rock, he spoke to himself about the god damned rotters, the god damned wilders, and the fucking death eater that convinced him to go on this bullshit journey in the first place. Griff paced fervently, and the death eater stared at him in wonder as the man walked the same 5 steps over and over, aggressively conversing with himself about everything going on around them, and cursing his apparent lack of whiskey.
“Okay.” Was all Griff said when he stopped walking. Griff had somehow managed to flip a switch, and the alien stared at him as he once again became the calm, cool, and collected lawman he was renowned to be.
At this point the engines were like thunder and the smell of exhaust was starting to fill the air, yells and screams could be heard faintly over the sound of multiple motorcycles roaring across the Martian landscape.
It doesn’t have to be the right decision, Griff thought, but I just have to make a decision.
“Okay?” The death eater asked, still looking at Griff in bewilderment.
“Well, I’ve got no desire to climb into that fucking hole, so we gotta fight, and we have to do it NOW!” Griff put a lot of emphasis on the last word, immediately moving as he yelled it.
He whipped around the side of the rock to see a small cluster of bikes riding through the martian wastes. A few were riding double, six bikes in total. The riders all started yelling louder at the sight of him, screaming and pointing in his direction. Griff could barely hear the screaming over the thunderstrike of the banging engines.
Griff responded to the screams and the hammering of the motors by letting his revolver do some hammering of its own. Two shots immediately leapt from the barrel, the first one tagging a rider on the bike of a bike. The bullet shattered the goggles strapped to his face and exploded out the back of his head. The rust-stained duster that flapped in the wind behind the rider whipped and crumpled with the body as it hit the iron-soaked dirt and lifelessly stopped in a heap.
The second round missed its mark, but the damage was done. His appearance and execution of one of them pressed their aggression, and the riders pressed on. Most of them wore similar coats and goggles, many had long dirty hair that waved behind them in the wind. The engines grew louder as the wilders closed the distance, the bikes moved as if they could outrun an oncoming bullet.
Gotta thin the numbers before they get here, Griff thought.
Just then a shadow fell over Griff and a deep thud sounded from above and behind him. He glanced back to see the death eater had leapt on top of the rock, one hand outstretched before him. Griff watched as the head of a driver popped unceremoniously, fountains of blood spraying into the air and coagulating with the rust cloud the bikes had created.
Griff had forgotten how brutal the death eaters could be in combat. He remembered the fortification training they had received, and this reminded him of why it was so important. The science types had taught all of the legs how to protect themselves from this type of psychic attack, although the only reason they even thought it would work was because of the mutations on Mars. Attuned, they called it, and had it not happened, Mars would have most certainly fallen.
Griff tightened his grip on the revolver and squeezed another shot that opened a canal through the head of one of the drivers, sending the bike to the ground and then skidding to a halt.
The other three bikes were close enough that they were slowing and stopping. Griff briefly contemplated reloading, despite having three in the cylinder still, instead he dashed back behind the rock, and peered out again to see that two of the bikes had stopped, four people had dismounted. The third and final bike was starting to ride off. Shots rang out and the Death Eater dove back behind the same rock in an effort to take cover.
Rounds occasionally popped off, though Griff realized the Wilders weren’t really shooting at anything, just trying to keep him and the alien behind cover.
“They’re going to move around and flank us!” Griff told the alien. He visualized the landscape and the combat in his head and tried to figure out which direction would make for the easiest to flank from. As he got it all worked out in his head he realized that it didn’t matter. The Death Eater was able to sense them and was already moving to attack the people moving from their side.
“Give me cover.” the voice whispered into his head.
“Cover…” the word repeated in Griff’s mind, and he could slowly feel his focus fading.
“No. Not now. Not right fucking now!” He yelled the words, spat them out of his mouth like they were poison. He was poisoned, and was frustrated at his inability to control himself.
Suddenly he was no longer under the rays of the Orbisun, but instead under the cool night sky. The rocks and boulders that were giving him cover dissolved into a rooftop. Another goddamned rooftop.
The explosion of bullets being fired filled the air and muzzle flashes danced through the sky like fireflies. The heavy revolver in his hand felt massive and Griff looked down to see his old Automatic Rifle had replaced it. Around him was chaos, soldiers were yelling, taking cover, and some were returning fire. Bullets buzzed like bees all around, and chips of the building rained as rounds settled into walls.
Griff settled into his firing position and took a deep breath. He rested the Automatic Rifle’s bipods on a desk that had been hauled to the rooftop, and pressed his shoulder into the buttstock. Sandbags sat on top of the desk, protecting him from incoming fire. The yelling and shouting was almost impossible to hear over the constant barrage of gunfire. He scanned the blackness of night, waiting for the distant fireflies to sing their song and attract their mate. Muzzles flashed and he could hear the voice of his Team Leader, Corporal Allen, yelling over everything. It was the only voice he could hear.
“There. 11 o’clock!” he shouted, pointing with one hand as he tapped Griff with the other. He was pointing at distant muzzle flashes.
Griff didn’t need the help, he had been here before, he had worked the Automatic Rifle before. He knew his job almost instinctively. Without thinking he pointed the rifle at the last location of the flashes. His finger squeezed and three to five rounds erupted from the barrel. The bullets flew like angry hornets towards their target. Within seconds another muzzle flash, more hornets in response. Griff carried on like this for almost a minute. Corporal Allen was shouting and cheering him on the whole time.
“Fuck yeah! That’s how you do it!” He would shout, among other words of encouragement.
Suddenly something had touched Griff’s foot, and he kicked out reflexively.
“Fuck! Corporal! Corporal!” Griff shouted as he snuffed out more candlelight flashes. He was trying so hard to focus on what he was doing, but the feeling on his boot was trying so hard to get him to look down.
“What?!” Allen shouted back over the constant hammering of machine gun fire.
“Something just grabbed my Goddamned foot! I don’t know what it is, but something fucking grabbed me!” Griff continued his single-minded task of three to five round bursts while he yelled.
Allen, who had been standing behind Griff and his desktop firing position, suddenly leaned forward and peered over the front of the desk. His eyes widened as he saw what was on the other side.
“You little piece of shit!” Allen yelled, and he grabbed what Griff thought was a boot. He could only catch bits and pieces out of his peripheral vision. He just wanted to focus on what he was doing. Nothing else mattered.
It was a boot. Soon Corporal Allen was pulling a whole body from the front of the desk. Griff could see it was a soldier.
“What are you doing, shitbag!” Allen yelled at the soldier. This was the side of Allen that Griff had hated seeing. He was a large and intimidating man, and while Griff wasn’t scared of him, he wasn’t stupid, either.
“Please! Please!” the soldier cried, “this isn’t why I joined. I’m commo!” he continued. He had tears in his wide eyes. Allen had dragged him behind the desk, but the soldier never even tried to stand up, he simply lay on the ground crying. Allen tried to pull him up, but every time he did the communications soldier would just go limp and become dead weight. The frustration was mounting, and Griff could feel the intensity in Allen’s anger rise.
“Get up and fight!” Allen yelled at the soldier, shaking his limp body before pushing it back to the dirty rooftop. “Get up you little bitch!”
He curled up in a ball, and Griff glanced out of his peripheral at the boy on the ground. He looked so young, how could he look so young? The “boy” was probably the same age as Griff, but Griff doubted he had endured the stress of combat. This wasn’t Griff’s first firefight, not even close, and the stress of constant combat ages a person.
He continued crying, “No. Please no! This isn’t why I joined!” Other words escaped his babbling lips, but the only intelligible word that Griff could pick up throughout the muttering and mithering was “momma”. This struck Griff. Not that he cared for the soldier that refused to pick up a rifle and fight, he had nothing but apathy for a coward. Griff did find it odd that in our most dire of circumstances, there’s always one person above all others we call out for, and it isn’t god.
Griff looked down at him briefly before resuming his firefly hunt. When he looked at the soldier he saw Jones. Poor Jones and that rooftop when the war first started. He saw a dead man, hole in his head, blood pouring from it and pooling in the rust-stained roof. He saw a man that wasn’t a coward, and in that moment Griff hated the soldier on the ground next to him. He hated him more than he hated his enemy, across the night sky, doing everything in their power to kill him.
“I didn’t sign up for this! I’m not you!” he continued yelling.
Griff had often thought about that sentence after the firefight. He wondered how someone could enlist into the military and then claim they didn’t join to fight. What did he think would happen if a war broke out?
Suddenly the crying turned into pained heaves. Once again Griff stopped scanning long enough to glance over and down at the craven shitbag curled up on the ground next to him. Corporal Allen had finally hit his limit and decided to unleash his fury. He angrily began heaving his booted foot into the young soldier’s ribs. His tree trunk legs swung with pure rage and soon the soldier was heaving and vomiting in place. When Allen had had enough he simply walked away, leaving the soldier to cry in a pool of tears and bile.
Allen resumed his position, checking on his team, and periodically yelling in Griff’s ear, “Fuck yeah! Keep killing them!”