Maydover - Chapter 1

With the rising of the first sun came a violent, short-lived weather disturbance. Strong gusts of wind started to pulse the dark clouds closer towards Maydover Valley, draining away all its persistent and brilliant colours. The mightiest of trees moaned as their branches were swept away like paper limbs and plunged to the ground, adding to the destruction below as heavy raindrops hammered into the earth with a vigorous rhythm, creating a complex network of streaming rivers - but with the heavy clouds came life and after the deluge the sun was at its brightest.

There were no rules to this chaos - no second chances, no do-overs - and luck, cover and ammo was more important than heroism. The hopeful soldiers tried to form coherent thoughts as they urinated themselves, waiting for a signal as their heartbeats went supersonic. Taking deep breaths, the soldiers took the time to re-zero their scopes and check the muzzle breaks of their Mossberg 100 ATR Night Train Winchesters - reloading them with their ten round detachable magazines.

The LWSS Slayer, a lightweight attack ship streaked through the sky faster than John Bennett had ever seen before. He knew the enemy had already disseminated and updated its target information on his mission. Most ships maxed out on seven or eight g, war ships close to ten, but this one, he calculated, was close to fifteen. By now, it probably had every member of his platoon locked in, sending vital statistics back to its first responders and reported back to its base. They were waiting for John to give the signal to make the first move before squeezing him out, otherwise they would be drawing first blood - he had to act fast.

Leading his platoon for nearly three years now, John knew his terrain and hideouts better than he knew his own family. Lying here, half way up the hill on the edge of the basin, wedged underneath boulders to shelter himself from the boiling heat of the second sun - which appeared close to an hour ago - John was practically invisible to enemy reflector sites.

Adjusting his scope, John studied a squadron of Battleships torpedo across the sky in formation, before breaking away and disappearing into the distance. He knew they would be back within the hour, returning with rapid fire and destroying everything around him. The uneasy feeling in his stomach got worse the longer he waited. John still had time, but keeping his platoon calm before battle and intermittently acting on impulse was a hard task.

The nerves and inner silence John experienced were excruciating as he re-adjusted his helmet and goggles. He mapped out his three points of contact in his head. One - Two - Three: that was all he had to do - signal his team to cover his back, take out the designated marksman in front of him and then run like hell to get his Lieutenant off the live field.

John studied the helpless man through his binoculars. The bullet ploughed into his leg and smashed his femur, exiting through the other side - a clean shot. John knew if he left him there for much longer, the bullet would do its work and he would never see Wesley again; he also knew that the enemy was using him as bait - a helpless, screaming animal writhing around on the ground, waiting to be rescued. Had they wanted to kill Wesley, he’d be dead, there was no doubt about it.

In any other scenario, John would have written Wesley off and used him to lure the enemy in himself, but he had too much history with this man in the past five years of his service. John also knew that Wesley was in an excruciating amount of pain right now and was stifling his screams out of pride and belligerence, knowing that someone would have come to his rescue with the risk of being shot. They had each other’s backs through military college and understood each other so well, that they needed each other to function - this was a personal matter.

John heard a booming vibration echoing across the basin. It was the sound of rocks sliding down the cliffs. He held his fist up in the air to signal his soldiers to stop - it was still too early for an attack.

Looking around for the rogue sniper, John had a hunch that he was hiding behind a grass hill in front of him, but was almost ready to change shifts after staring at the same spot for twelve hours straight without any recorded movement. He felt hot and dehydrated and needed food before the rising of the second sun destroyed the remaining shadow left to him.

John’s insides clenched as he heard grunts protrude from the hill he was closely monitoring. He knew that sound, as days before he reached the shelter, John spent three nights in between dense sawgrass swaying in the gusting wind - its blades scraping and penetrating the thick cotton of his khakis.

Without hesitation, he found a teammate close to him and pointed his finger at his own eye before bringing his hand down in front of him, making an “L” shape with his finger and thumb. The enemy had been sighted and they were armed. With an open hand, he waved his arm forward, starting from behind and stopping at his body. Inch by inch, the team crept forwards, covering the space behind him.

John pulled the bolt handle of the Mossberg backwards towards him one millimetre at a time, as silently as possible, locking it into place with one swift action. Watching the sniper train his weapon on Wesley, John lined up his shot through the crosshairs of his scope. A chill ran down the back of his spine and his little finger twitched for a brief second - just as it always did before a kill. John pulled the trigger and heard the whip-like crack, while watching the sniper’s lifeless body slump forwards.

“What the hell are you doing, Bennett?” a voice yelled from behind.

John pushed himself upwards on his feet and raced across the field. He ran fast. It was all he could do right now. With backup behind him, he had to move. His mind and body snapped into speed-mode and he was ultra-focussed on his target, everything around him was happening in slow motion.

Throwing his legs forward, John skidded towards Wesley.

“John, you fucking idiot!” Wesley extorted.

“You ready for a ruck run, Wes?” John asked as he scooped Wesley off the ground.

“If I lose my leg because of you, you’re history!” Wesley threatened.

“I’ll be sure to give you the five star treatment once we’re back at base” John smiled.

Wesley glared at John.

With the man’s arms and legs secured tight around John’s neck and torso, he jogged back to the bunker as fast as he could. The sniper was dead and John was sure that his spotter was following the Mossbergs’ vapour trail through his scope, giving him free access to the platoons’ location before readying himself.

The Slayer with its squadron of fixed-wing fighters reappeared, split up into formation, ready to attack. In this moment, John remembered that there was more than one type of ambush - in basic training, all they taught the dot-to-dot thinkers was to shoot and run; in reality, they were about to take the platoon down from every side, or trap them, torture the survivors and pick their lives apart until their downfall - John preferred death.

John pinpointed the blasters his platoon had assembled along the red line. Green lasers flashed into the distance, revealing their hideout.

“NOW!” John yelled as he reached the bunker. “FIRE!”

The trees surrounding the valley basin were too unsteady in the howling wind to attach the explosive charges, instead, the platoon shot them around their hideout, knowing that fixed-wings had a short firing range and had to dive down to reach the bunker.

The charge detonated. The boom was huge, pushing a wave of heat into the ground. John detached Wesley from his body and fell backwards hard, clutching his chest - the adrenaline was too much for him. The pain moved from his chest to his shoulders, arms and neck and he felt light-headed. John wasn’t sure if it was exertion from carrying his right-hand man off the field, or if it was something more sinister. He looked over to Wesley.

“Wes, I need you to take over and tell the medic I need nitroglycerine when he arrives. I’m going to pass out for a little while” John instructed through heaving breaths as he faded away.

“To turn yourself into our secret weapon?” Wesley laughed “Just make sure you come back to us, mate. We still need you” he answered as he rolled himself into a more comfortable position.

Wesley grabbed a set of binoculars and a radio from a soldier next to him and watched the mayhem on the battlefield unfold. Calculating the distance between the fixed-wing fighters and metallic discs around them, Wesley placed his right arm diagonally across his chest to signal his fireteam to be at the ready.

Nobody was ever ready for battle - this was the beginning of a war. At this point, the question wasn’t why people were going to die and suffer, but when. The fixed-wing fighters drifted closer as the platoon was getting as prepared as possible.

Watching the fleet zero in at light speed, Wesley didn’t hesitate and gave the signal to commence fire by waving his hand back and forth at hip height. Wesley covered his ears and turned away from the explosives as the platoon aimed at the discs and the blasts went off, the force of the detonation knocking him back a few feet. His ears rang and he turned deaf.

Six sonic booms detonated simultaneously around the fleet of fixed-wing fighters. Wesley heard the claps of thunder and he felt a short cold breeze before the vessels caught fire and crashed into the edges of the nearby basin, falling apart like bricks of lego. He could see his platoon celebrating their small victory, but Wesley knew that this war was far from over. In a matter of hours, the enemy would arrive, fighting the remaining soldiers - his soldiers - to their bitter end.

Another flash of summer rain floated by in gentle waves as the third sun peaked over the valley mountains, only to be disturbed by cracking, whizzing and zapping noises of a new fleet of fixed-wings covering the serene sounds of the basin. The enemy worked fast and was prepared. Wesley had never seen an army of detractors arrive as fast as this one had - he wasn’t ready.

Three opposing forces now fought each other without rhyme or reason, but this battle, although over within minutes, was yet to find its winning side. Red, brown and khaki were the new colours of what was once a tranquil and thriving valley basin as the decadent hills, green foliage and new sprung buds were replaced with death and destruction.

The rain hammered the earth once more and the wind howled like some kind of horror movie opener in a dark room. The trees creaked and screamed as their limbs strained against the onslaught - just like Wesley’s soldiers. The shower violently whipped his face, taking away his sight; as branches, people and debris tumbled around the flamboyant green grass. Without sight or sound, Wesley was helpless in this mess and was about to go under.

Finding a piece of metal on the soaked ground, Wesley fought his enemy for survival in his own way. He was a fighter, but he was also smart, hiding under the hollow piece of wing of the once powerful machine. At this moment, he knew he wasn’t the hero he signed up to be and he was worried about John, who was hopefully still lying on the stretcher in the bunker. Wesley knew they wouldn’t harm the captain of a platoon - John was safe - for now. As for himself, he would wait it out until darkness fell over Maydover Valley, living with his cowardly life or death choices towards his team, while Wesley’s heart and soul felt it all.

Every step of the wounded caused a temporary puddle - what was pale brown, was now dark; what was tarnished green was now virescent. The water turned into liquid magic, washing away every trail of blood and muddy footprints before disappearing into nearby streams and rivers, leaving this new world covered with monsters of their own making.

The battlefield, now dust and dirt, all baked under this unrelenting heat, was quiet - too quiet - as the once luscious valley covered in buttercups and forget-me-nots was now a graveyard for the unburied. The men who died, were for the most part dead and those who were not soon would be.

****

John’s eyes fluttered open. His arrhythmia came in short flashes - it was benign and only required a check-in every time it decided to reappear. Dr Eliot was so sure it had stopped by itself during the medical, that the physician signed it off without hesitation. Nausea crept through his gut and into his head, but he knew, that once the sick feeling and vomiting had passed, he would feel alright again.

John looked up at the three suns as he breathed in small gulps of fresh air. He calculated another two hours until daylight would start to dwindle away and the night sky would appear with an array of stars, illuminated by their seasonal hues. He relaxed his body and closed his eyes.

The fresh smell of spring flowers and petrichor reminded John of his parents’ garden at home. He drifted off in a trance, remembering his family and his girlfriend spending the entire day sitting on the porch, watching him dig holes for plants; and all he got out of too many exhausting hours in the sun was a kiss and a beer - John hated gardening.

Another wave of nausea hit him as he thought about his family and his dehydration was now too obvious to ignore. Rolling himself on to his side, tucking his knees up to his chest, he forced himself to sleep. This way, he could lower his heart rate, but the band of pressure squeezing around his head added to his misery.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled John out of his lucid sleep. Without hesitation, John clutched his Glock-19 from the leather strap around his knee, ready to shoot when necessary. Hoping it was someone from his platoon, John looked up and saw a massive red bush of hair surrounding two wide-set, green eyes. What this man didn’t have in camouflage, he definitely had in strength - his shirt stretched taut around his shoulders when he moved held John’s attention - he couldn’t help but stare.

Before John could react, the man threw a sickly blow against John’s temple, causing him to finally vomit; projecting his absent stomach contents at the red man’s boots. John lost the colour from his face and felt his blood rush to his feet. Unable to fight the swirling feeling in his head and pit of his stomach, John relaxed as he lost control of his body - he was out cold.