Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset (201 page)

Just before the blade fell, the tip of another blade thrust through the man’s chest, and the hatchet crashed to the earth. Canice pulled her blade out, and the man collapsed. She held out her hand and helped Lance up then returned his sword to him.

Lance panted for breath and clutched his bleeding shoulder, glancing around at the small battles around him, each soldier clawing forward one inch at a time, tooth and nail, doing whatever they could to stay alive. Eyes were gouged, arms were bitten, and throats were squeezed. All of the pulse-pounding adrenaline they drew fuel from burned and propelled them forward.

More Chinese soldiers crept their way onto the battlefield, and Lance looked back to see the first few enemies break past their final reserve of men and into the city. The leak had sprung, and now it was only a matter of time before the city sank.

Canice tugged at Lance’s arm, her voice ragged and cracked. “Captain, we need to get back to the ship.”

Lance shook his head. “It’s too late for that.” They would die on this field, slain with the other hundreds of soldiers. He might be able to get her back to the port authority, along with the rest of his crew, and bargain for their lives to be spared, but in the end, he knew the Chinese would just torture whatever truth they wanted to hear out of them then end the struggle with a red smile.

Alarms rang from horns in the city from the breach, wailing into the night. What Aussies remained on the field slowly retreated back into the city, running to their families, their friends, trying to save what was left of their own lives.

“We’ll fall back to the docks.” Lance joined in the retreat, sprinting toward the water as fast as his tired legs would carry him. Cannons thundered behind them, the Chinese advancing their artillery for a deeper range within the city. Bloody shoulders and arms bumped and crashed into one another as the citizens who’d locked themselves inside their homes suddenly burst from their dwellings and joined the massive retreat away from the steel and lead meant to kill them.

Artillery dropped around mothers clutching their children in flight to the port, and the elderly hobbled forward before being slain or trampled by the enemy or their own people. Alleyways clogged as the city’s inhabitants clustered at the docks. Screams, cries, and prayers all intermixed with the booming cannons that filled the night air.

Lance and Canice made their way to the Sani, the crew already prepared for departure. They could chance breaking through the front lines and engage the Chinese on the water, but he knew they’d be gunned down the moment they broke through the harbor’s entrance.

“Captain!” Canice yelled from the deck, but Lance had already descended into his cabin.

The deck above shuffled with the sound of boots hurrying to depart as Lance thrust aside the desk in his chambers and removed a wooden panel on the wall behind it. A safe revealed itself, and Lance quickly turned the dial back and forth until the pins of the lock clicked into place. He reached inside and grabbed a small pendulum shaped in a smooth, silver sphere at the end of a necklace.

“Lance.” Canice crashed inside his quarters, out of breath, her eyes wild with excitement. “The Aussies’ fleet from Brazil has returned.” A smile curved up the right side of her cheek, and Lance scrambled behind her up the stairs to the deck to see the sight for himself.

And there, just beyond the cluster of Chinese ships, Lance watched the advancing Australian fleet crash into the Chinese, tearing apart the blockade. Lance looked back down at the pendulum still clutched in his fist, the chain dangling from his fingertips. “Load the cannons! Cast the lines! We’re not dead yet.”

Dean led the caravan, nearly five hundred strong, across the dotted wastelands of what was once the great Midwest of the old union. The flat land stretched for miles, the only variety coming in the form of a few hills protruding from the landscape.

Patches of dead earth intermixed with still-struggling tufts of green doing their best to fight against the poison of the world around them. For decades, men wouldn’t have even attempted to cross these lands, and even today, nearly a half century after the Great War, there were still some places where men could not travel without fear of death.

When Dean had been a boy, he’d watched his mother, one of the only healers in their village, treat a man who’d ventured into one of the burned cities in hopes of finding food and supplies. It wasn’t but a few days later the man became ill. His hair fell out, his skin discolored, and he couldn’t eat or drink. Despite his mother’s best efforts, the man wasted away, screaming in agony in even the last few moments of his life.

Dean never understood the risk that man took until he’d tasted desperation himself. As he grew up, his parents had shielded both him and his brothers from much of the reality of the world, but as he grew older, Dean saw just how broken the world really was. His father and uncles had done their best to assemble an alliance, understanding the strength in numbers, but it wasn’t until Fred and Lance had become men themselves that any real headway began to take shape. And now, with the groundwork laid by nearly two generations, they were so close to being part of a larger world.

They passed the first camps of the clansmen on their left, and Dean recognized the Black Rocks flag outside one of the makeshift huts they’d constructed from earth and mud. Similar structures had been raised, offering a look of pockmarks etched on the landscape. Most of the wasteland clans were nothing more than nomads, scavenging what was left of the Midwest in numbers upwards of twenty thousand. Some clans were larger than others, and all of them had their own individual customs, but they all shared a common distaste for one another.

It wasn’t until hate for Dean and his brothers that the clans attempted any type of alliance. Once the Wasteland Wars were over, the loose peace had been fragile, but most of the old chiefs had died in battle, and the new ones feared to share the same fate as their predecessors.

Chief Irons stepped out of his hut, accompanied by his guard, and gave a nod to Dean as he rode by. Slowly, one by one, the other clan chiefs exited, making their way toward the center of the camp to convene council.

Black Rocks, Scarvers, Boulders, Hill People, Flayers, Molthays, Fulkers—all gathered in one place for the first time since the peace talks nearly a year ago. Every clan had circled around a cleared opening, one that was set up by a representative from each clan, ensuring equal work and equal sets of eyes watching one another to prevent any treachery. Once the space had been cleared, each chief brought with him one member of his council, and the rest remained at the perimeter. Every clan brought the same number of warriors, all of whom remained unarmed when it came time for the meeting. Dean found his seat between Chief Irons and the Molthays’ Chief Kuthos.

Dean glanced around the circle, the hard, weathered faces of the chiefs glaring at him. He knew what he was to ask of them was near the realm of impossible, but with the Russians making their way south, he knew he would need all of the help he could get. “I thank all of you for your council. I know how difficult it is to take time away from your matters at home, but I can promise you what I have to say will be worth the journey.”

“I hope it is, Governor.” Chief Fullock of the Scarver Clan leaned forward. His face was carved and tattooed in angular patterns and designs, as was most of their clan. They believed that the discipline and mastery of pain was the only way to truly honor their Burned God. “You cannot summon us whenever you desire. We are not your subjects to command.”

A few of the other chiefs grunted in agreement, and Dean raised his hands. “Chiefs, I can tell you I think nothing less of you than equals, and that’s how I come here, as your equal.” It was a delicate walk of respect and strength needed to navigate the wasteland clans. Pride was one of their many… redeeming qualities.

“The governor has kept his word with every condition put together in the treaty,” Chief Irons said. “We owe him the same respect of what he has to say.”

While there weren’t any nods of agreement, there also weren’t any grunts of disapproval, and in the current climate, Dean took that as a good sign. “Thank you.” The young chief had been integral in helping keep the clans in order. The Black Rocks were by far one of the largest wasteland clans, and their superiority in strength carried much weight. And Irons had a thirst for more than just the patches of dirt his people occupied.

Dean leaned forward, the gaze of every chief upon him. “Our peace was hard fought, and one year ago we chose the fruits of collaboration over war. The rail that would connect my two regions of the southeast and northwest would also bring greater trade to your people. But now, a new war is coming that threatens our growth. And it comes from a far-off land. The Russians have invaded my people’s colonies in the Alaskan north, and they plan to march south to take the rest. Their army will be vast, and they will not stop their march once they reach my borders.”

Chief Irons’s young face had aged much since the last time Dean had spoken to him. The tolls of leadership had etched lines of stress on his mouth and forehead. “You believe this army will try and war with us?”

The other chiefs leaned in eagerly. While a year was a short time for peace in Dean’s world, for the clans it was a lifetime. They fed on combat, and the prospect of returning to glory was temptation itself. It was something Dean had planned on leveraging. “Yes, I do.”

Throaty groans and rising tempers flared through the council. Chief Fullock was the first to stand, beating his chest with his massive fist, each heavy thud followed by a harder strike. “The Scarvers will not let some army take what is rightfully ours. If they come here, we will cut them open and carve their hearts from their chests while they still beat until they see the face of the great Burned God with their dying eyes.”

Chief Irons and Chief Kuthos rose as well, offering their own sacrifices to their gods of mountains and sky. The ritual continued all the way around the council until it was only Dean who sat. While the clans gladly accepted war, he wondered if they would accept fighting with each other, instead of against. “This enemy that gathers at our gates is not to be taken lightly. They will come in numbers like you have never seen, and they will be well trained and fearless.”

“You call us cowards, Governor?” Chief Fullock asked, the scars and tattoos along his face twisting in anger. “The Scarvers are not some herd of young pups, too weak to defend themselves.”

“No, you are not, but the fact remains that the only way for us to survive is to stand together.” Dean rose, forcing himself not to step into the center of the circle, which would cause more harm than good. “As fast and strong as each of our warriors are alone, they will become unstoppable when paired together. We will come down on the Russians with a united front that they will not expect, and we will push them back to the very depths of the north from which they came.”

An unusually cold breeze rushed through the council, blowing the hairs and clothes astray, and sent a frigid chill up each of their backs. The rest of the council remained quiet, and it wasn’t until Chief Irons held out his palm, face up, that the others reacted. “The Black Rocks will fight with you, Governor.” The young chief turned to the rest of the clans. “The Black Rocks will fight with all of you.”

Chief Kuthos held out his palm in the same manner, the common expression of acceptance and agreement among the clans. “The Molthays will join this fight as well.”

One by one the other chiefs agreed, a wave of relief washing over Dean until there was only Chief Fullock. “You bring us threats of war and coercions of peace. I remember fighting you, Governor, on the fields of my land, bloodied with my people.”

“We will need the might of all the clans, Chief,” Dean replied. “And you would do me honor to join this cause. The Scarvers were some of the fiercest warriors I fought. The Russians would do well to worry if they see you on the field.”

“If?” Chief Fullock flashed his crooked and stained teeth in a wild smile. “These Russians will do well to make peace with their gods, for the Scarvers will rip out their organs and devour them while they watch.” The Scarvers Fullock had brought with him that stood outside the circle lifted their arms into the air, shouting their clan’s battle cries, their voices shrieking into the sky.

The hysteria grew to the others surrounding the council, each clansman feeling the drum of war beating within. As long as the clansmen focused on killing the Russians instead of each other in the heightened bloodlust, Dean knew they had a chance at winning.

***

A constant stream of officers and messengers flooded into Delun’s quarters, bringing news of their small victories along the island coasts. With the bulk of the Australian Navy away, the Pacific Islands to the Aussies’ north had been taken easily.

The small colonies were united only by the Australian namesake and had no military to contest. A few forts on some of the larger islands were all that stood in Delun’s way, and his sheer numbers consumed the land like locusts. His invasion of the islands had been seamless. But when the timid messenger delivered the news of the Australian fleet returning from Brazil, breaking the blockade of Sydney’s port, Delun forced the surprise back down into the pit of his stomach.

The messenger kept his head bowed, the strong grip of fear trembling the boy’s limbs at what retribution the emperor might seek for bringing him such news. “I’m sorry, Emperor, for disgracing your eyes with such disappointment.”

Delun stood, ignoring the messenger’s pleas. The Australian fleet wasn’t supposed to have returned for at least a week. The only way for them to have arrived in Sydney so quickly was if they were sent word, and while he knew the Australians had formidable numbers, they lacked leadership that possessed that type of foresight. Which told him that the Mars brother was still alive.

Delun brushed away the thought with the same enthusiasm he would tend a fly pestering him. In the end, the Mars brother’s participation would be of little significance. Delun knew it was only a matter of time before the North Americans began to interfere with his plans; their alliance with the Australians was too important. But with Rodion marching on them in their own lands, they would soon have to divert their attention elsewhere. “What were our casualties in the Australian invasion? Both men and ships.”

The messenger stuttered, caught off guard. “I-I’m sorry, Emperor, I was not given that information.”

The first look Delun cast to the messenger’s face nearly sent the boy to tears. “I would suggest you find out. And do so quickly.” The boy bowed then sprinted out of Delun’s tent.

Even with the Australians regrouping, he still had the islands secured. He would send the bulk of his force south to aid in the infiltration of Australia’s mainland. While the Australian forces were smaller, the sheer size of the continent was a problem. The islands offered little places to hide, but the massive landscape of the Australian Outback presented logistical difficulties, yet victory was not impossible.

However, he knew that the conquering of a people was difficult. While the Australians could be beaten, they wouldn’t soon forget the atrocities of war. The creation of a sustainable empire started not with the conquerors’ will, but of the acceptance of those that were conquered.

Delun left his quarters hastily, the guards stationed at his tent nearly missing him leaving. No matter what each soldier was doing, the moment Delun passed, the soldier discarded whatever duties they tended to and bowed. It was an instant reaction to Delun’s presence, a respect that was hard earned, the culmination of a lifetime of building trust.

Beyond the camp that Delun had established as his forward operating base, on the very southern tip of the Philippines colony, was one of the colony’s largest ports. The city had flourished after the Australians bolstered the islands with trade at the end of the Island Wars. It wasn’t long before it had become the central hub for the rest of the island colonies under Australian control.

Much of the rural inhabitants that lived inland flocked to the coast and brought with them the culture of their people, and the port had become the beating heart of the islands, welcoming newcomers to the Philippines’ unique atmosphere. Aside from the military value of holding such a large port so close to the Australian north, arguably the second most important aspect was the fact that this is where the sway of the people resided. And if Delun could win the heart, then the rest would fall into line.

Delun’s predecessors had failed because their reach was beyond their grasp. They used bullets and whips, trying to cast their newfound prisoners into slavery, forcing them to build their ships, sow their fields, and fight their wars. But just like so many before them, their empire crumbled between their fingers.

Much of that loss had to do with the Americans, but it also involved the Chinese approach of establishing themselves as conquerors, not liberators. As such, the island colonies welcomed the Americans with open arms. But Delun would not allow history to repeat itself.

While the Australians weren’t cruel in their governance, they lacked resources to truly build the islands out to their potential. Both the people and the land remained mostly uncultivated, and Delun planned to change that.

Delun made his way to the docks where his soldiers had been unloading provisions from their ships night and day since their arrival. Engineers consulted with locals to help streamline the efficiency of goods arriving into port. Healers met with the sick. Carpenters helped rebuild homes destroyed during the battles. The humanitarian effort was equally as important as the war. He needed these people to trust him, to respect him. It was the only way to sustainability. And it was working.

The tent where the bulk of the healers worked was filled with hundreds of women, clutching their sick children, praying for help. Whispers of thanks and blessing filled the air as Delun walked past. Each syllable of acceptance permeated him into their lives.

Delun marched out the other end of the medical station, where educators began their lesson with children. His soldiers offered food and provisions to those with nothing. Whatever resistance the colony thought of producing was vanishing with every new Chinese ship that came into port. Now, instead of warships, they saw food, medicine, relief.

The promising sight was suddenly upended by a commotion near one of the unloading docks. A Filipino man was fighting with two soldiers, screaming at them to leave. Every head in the port turned to the commotion, and Delun marched over, his guards staying close to his side.

A rusted, bent sword lay on the ground next to the rebel as one of the soldiers bound his wrists then knocked him to his knees. The soldier that tied him up sported a bruise on his right cheek. The moment the Chinese sailors saw their emperor, they dropped to their knees and flattened the Filipino man onto his stomach.

“What happened here?” Delun’s voice was neither concerned nor forgiving at the sight. He’d instructed his men to only engage in physicality if they were greeted with force. Not only did it offer the colonies a gentle hand to hold onto, it also rested his soldiers for the fight to come with the Australians and Americans.

“This man drew his weapon and started slicing open our bags of grains.” The soldier kept his head down, pointing behind him to the spilled food on the dock.

Delun lifted the soldier’s chin, examining the lump under the man’s eye. “And he struck you?” The soldier nodded, and Delun grabbed the hilt of the prisoner’s rusty sword. He ran his thumb against the dull blade, surprised the weapon could have sliced through the coarse fabric holding the grains.

The rest of the dock had gone quiet, and Delun noticed that the local population had mimicked his own soldiers in kneeling. “We have come here to give you something that you have never had for yourselves.” Delun’s voice echoed across the open air, the sound of waves splashing between his words against the docks and ship hulls. “The Australians conquered you but never accepted you as one of their own. I come to do neither.”

A few of the Filipinos that hadn’t knelt stepped forward, eager to hear Delun’s words, eager to feel a control they’d never felt before, one that was placed in their own hands.

“The Chinese have been under the thumb of the west for too long. As have you!” The sword in Delun’s hand moved effortlessly in rhythm with his words. “I can offer you a better world, one within your control. All that I ask is your fealty. I promise you that I will be just, and I will be fair. But know that my generosity has limits.”

Delun motioned for the soldier to bring the Filipino man forward and rest his head on top of a crate. The man jerked and fidgeted but immediately stopped once Delun gently placed the edge of the rusty steel against his sweating neck. The man trembled at the touch, his defiance dripping from him with every tear.

The crowd watching drew in a collective breath, every eye watching Delun. He had them in the palm of his hand. “But I am not without mercy.” He removed the blade from the man’s neck. “Swear to me your loyalty, and I will have you live out your days in servitude.”

The man looked up; the lack of rod had resurrected the man’s courage. “You come here as a chameleon. You offer your food, your medicine, but it costs blood. Blood that my people will spill in the name of your war. If I do not die today, your men will die tomorrow.” He spit on the ground in his last act of defiance.

“Very well.” Delun brought the blade high above his head and swung down with a powerful force that wedged the rusting steel into the spine of his neck. Jagged pieces of flesh hung loosely from the gash, and blood splashed onto the dock. The man convulsed and bled out, half his head still hanging onto his body, the blade wedged in the wound. Delun turned to address the crowd. “That was the fate he chose.” Blood stained his hands and splattered his shirt. He pointed back to the body, still spasming, being carried away. “But that does not have to be yours!”

Then, slowly, one by one, what Filipinos remained standing bent their knees and lowered their heads. This was the first brick in the foundation of Delun’s empire. And if he needed to, he would layer it with the corpses of one rebellious villager at a time.