Dawn of the Mad
Authors: Brandon Huckabay
Dawn of the Mad
Brandon J. Huckabay
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locations or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 Brandon J. Huckabay
Astigbooks
Humble, Texas 77396 and Caloocan City, Philippines 1405
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form (printed or digital) without permission of the author.
This book can be ordered on the internet at
www.amazon.com
ISBN-13: 978-0615840949
ISBN-10: 0615840949
Cover art by Duncan Long
Author Photo by George Gaylor
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
Acknowledgements
There were many people who helped along the way either by reading rough drafts, offering suggestions, or helping with editing. Anyway, you know who you are and I thank you.
I would like to thank my wife Rose who has taught me a lot about life and not giving up on my dreams.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
Corporal Joachim Scotts sat uncomfortably in the bottom of the muddy trench. The visor on his helmet was raised, letting the raindrops splash on his youthful, albeit bearded, face. He hadn’t the time or the inclination to shave because of the rapid pace of the campaign. His body armor kept pinching him as he shifted position in the cramped confines of the trench, trying in vain to get comfortable.
The sudden escalation of the war had prevented, or at least delayed him from fulfilling his dream of becoming a fighter pilot. Halfway through the pilot’s course, he had been yanked out and drafted into the assault infantry, subjected to being soaked to the bone, on the remains of this god-forsaken planet. He clutched his battle rifle and wondered what day would be his last.
“An offensive is coming.” Sergeant Matthias’s weary voice trailed through the thick fog that had settled on the forward trench. He absent mindedly began drumming his fingers on the hilt of a large knife protruding from his belt.
“How do you know that, Sarge?” Scotts asked. “We haven’t been given an attack order.” Scotts bit off a piece of bread as he leaned back against a muddy trench wall. With his mouth partially full of dry, pasty bread, he continued, “or have we? I hope not.”
“No attack orders yet, but there are signs to look for when you’ve been out in this hell as long as I have.” As Matthias spoke, he stood up abruptly and slogged his way down the muddy trench. Scott’s got up dutifully and followed close behind. When Matthias reached a wooden ladder, he tugged on several of the rungs to test their strength. Satisfied that the ladder would hold his weight, Matthias climbed, pausing just below the lip of the trench. Snipers posed a constant risk. Matthias peered through his binoculars over the battle-scarred trench line, scanning the desolation of no- man’s-land. The thick fog enveloping the enemy trenches would prevent any sniper activity for now. An eerie quiet had settled in over the still, breezeless air, creating an almost supernatural feel, as if the men were fighting between worlds, in limbo. Sporadically, enemy soldiers could be heard talking in hushed voices, their voices drifting across the no-man’s-land. Through his binoculars Matthias saw numerous fires and smoldering remains of destroyed equipment from the last push on his thermal scan.
“You see anything?” asked Scotts.
“The engineers are digging our lines closer to the city. I imagine there will be a push soon.”
As he manually adjusted the light spectrum on his binoculars, the ghostly outline of the smoldering cityscape emerged faintly in his viewfinder, like a spirit emerging from its grave. Satisfied with his quick scan, Matthias climbed back down the ladder into the welcoming confines of his trench.
Assault Sergeant Roger Matthias was old by trooper standards, reflecting his ability to survive. He brushed his graying hair off his face, one that marked him as a serious, but calculating individual. His powerful frame contrasted sharply with that of his tall, thin protégé, Corporal Scotts, who was still fidgeting beside him. The kid was a near genius but could still joke and make him smile, in even the direst situation.
To Matthias’s left and right, dozens of weary troopers sat in stagnant water with their backs against the trench wall. Mud coated everything. Matthias’s uniform was no exception, caked with both mud and dried blood. Some of the blood was his, but most of it was not, and all of it resulted from the last push. The left breast pocket of his tunic sported a gold cross bearing a silver eagle with diamond claws, the infantry’s highest award for bravery. He tried his best to keep this decoration mud-free.
Most of the troopers now slept, taking advantage of the rare calm. The last push had proved horrendous for both sides. They had agreed to a temporary cease-fire to clear the dead, re-arm, and prepare for the next onslaught. The battle had been sickening cycle of death that seemed like it would never end. Of the troopers who were awake, some were writing messages to loved ones back home, holding on to hope that they would survive to return home. Others simply stared at nothing, too desensitized to care anymore. Many of them had accepted that death was inevitable; with the only real question being when would it come.
The trench showed signs of recent combat. Blood-soaked bandages littered the muddy ground, and spatters of blood decorated the earthen wall itself. Many of those who did not make it back to their lines were simply left to die; stretcher bearers could bring back only so many and some had fallen in areas too dangerous for the recovery crews to reach. The wounded men who were trapped in no-man’s-land faced death, sooner or later, without medical aid, food, or water.
“You smell that?” Matthias asked Scotts.
“No,” Scotts replied absentmindedly, not really trying to pick up the scent. “I can’t smell anything but the stench of the dead.” He longed for sleep, but sleep came and went whenever it pleased, not when he wanted it.
Matthias cocked his head back and inhaled deeply. “There. See? It’s hot chow in the rear. They always give us a hot meal before a big push.”
Scotts craned his own neck back and inhaled deeply to humor the sergeant. “Yes, I do smell it now,” he replied, somewhat surprised. Stale bread and cold mystery soup was the norm, except for what the sergeant said —a push usually meant a hot meal. His stomach suddenly rumbled, as if on cue, and he quickly remembered how hungry he actually was.
“Not the most ideal conditions for an offensive, but there must be one coming if the field kitchens are moved up,” Matthias noted.
“Sergeant?”
“What?” Matthias replied, slightly irritated. He fumbled around in his pack for probably the most valuable piece of equipment he had—his mess tin. It was nowhere to be found.
“The colonel has never let us down before, has he?” Scotts asked. “You’d know better than I do. I mean, you’ve been fighting a lot longer than I have.”
Matthias closed the flap on his pack and sat down inside the trench, avoiding a puddle of brackish water, and put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “I would follow the colonel anywhere,” he said, as he released a deep breath. “He is the only reason why we have not yet lost this war.”
His comments appeared to do little to soothe the apprehension in the young corporal’s face, so he added, “Stay by my side. I’ll keep you alive the best I can.”
Scotts managed a weak smile and changed the subject. “I never realized I would be fighting out here. I had high hopes of becoming a star liner captain once the war ended.”
Matthias’s buttocks began to get numb, and he shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable in the cramped trench. “Well, as I always say, this hell is my home. It’s been too long since I have seen a green blade of grass, or a bird for that matter. I’m not sure I would know what I would do if the war ended tomorrow.” Matthias pushed his soft cap over his eyes and continued. “Perhaps I’m already dead. Go find yourself some chow, kid.” He closed his eyes and almost immediately drifted off into a deep sleep.
I wish I could do that
. Sleep seemed to be almost as elusive as the end of the war.
Scotts fished around inside his pack for his grey, woolen blanket. Finding it, he drew it up around his neck. To his dismay, it was wet. There wasn’t a dry part on his body. He was soaked, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had actually bathed. He had become accustomed to that, and to battle conditions in general. His first couple of combat actions had resulted in his bowels releasing involuntarily, but fortunately he had gotten past that.
About four months ago, an influx of conscripts and draftees from various service branches had arrived to help hold the line. Scotts had arrived with two dozen other confused and terrified souls straight from the main recruit depot, each of them loaded down with the bare necessities to fight: food, ammunition, weapons, and armor.
The conscripts had gone through recruit training, but no classroom or textbook could teach the grim realities of combat. The best teachers were those who had learned from their own experience the skills of adaptation and survival, but most of them were too valuable in the field to be brought back as instructors. It was customary to be assigned to an old hand at the front and Scotts felt himself fortunate that he had been assigned to Sergeant Matthias. Soon, if he survived, he would be considered one of the old hands.
Scotts began to wonder about the impending attack, and if it would actually take place, like the sergeant had predicted. The fog had remained in place for almost a week now. The regiment had tried a big push two days ago, attempting to utilize the fog to its own advantage in hiding its movement, but the effort failed dismally. The enemy counterattacked, with both sides suffering casualties and leaving many to die in no-man’s-land.
Visibility was less than a few feet, not enough to be able to aim and shoot someone. Scotts inhaled deeply once more, taking in the faint and distant aroma of the field kitchen.
Slowly, so as not to wake anybody, Scotts made his way down the overcrowded trench to the rear area. After several minutes of walking, he reached a large bunker dug underground. A field kitchen was indeed set up inside. The rear wall of the bunker featured a faded standard of a fanged wolf, with the word “Dreadwolves” painted in red script underneath. He grabbed his mess tin from his pack and held it out for the portly mess trooper. Without him even asking, his tin was filled to the top, almost overflowing. This was a double portion. To Scott’s delight, he detected what appeared to be chunks of meat in the thick, soupy mixture. The double portion provided a good clue that Matthias was right. With a big smile on his face, he walked out of the bunker and began to drink the gray, chunky porridge greedily, not even bothering to use his spoon. A strong, firm voice behind him interrupted his meal.