World War IV: Empires (4 page)

***

Women’s screams pierced the air sporadically through the night. Those that hadn’t fled quickly enough were passed around the camp greedily, every man eager for his turn. The cries of anguish brought a smile to Rodion’s face as he paced through the governor’s house in the Northwest capital. He knew he would burn the entire city eventually then rebuild his own, but for now the accommodations were to his liking.

Rodion enjoyed the fact that he was in Dean Mars’s home. He relished sleeping in his bed, drinking his ale, and eating his food. All that was left was to kill the man himself, and his occupation would be complete.

The battle had been a landslide. The swords and powdered rifles of their enemy did little against the AK-47s Rodion had provided his men. Fires still burned in the north, torching the dead in massive piles that dotted the battlefield. As much as Rodion enjoyed the cold, the warmth from that fire was better than any tundra he’d set foot on.

And the fires would continue to burn the farther Rodion marched his men south and then to the east, taking the entire continent, killing anyone that opposed him and enslaving any too craven to die by his hand. The foundation for his empire had been laid, and he would raise it higher, one corpse at a time.

“Lieutenant!” Rodion roared from inside the house, and a round-faced officer burst through the door, bringing with him louder screams from the women in the streets.

“Yes, General?”

“Send word to Delun. Tell him the Northwest is ours, and we require ships to keep the port.” Rodion had received no word from his ally for nearly a week. And he knew the Mars governors would return with the might of their fleet, and when they did he would be exposed on the coast.

The wooden floorboards creaked with every step of Rodion’s heavy boot. The house had been left in haste, clothes discarded, dishes dirtied on the tables and counters. A painting of the governor and his wife hung in the living room. Rodion picked it off the wall, nearly tearing the canvas in the process.

“General!” One of the officers hurried into the house, clutching his side as he caught his breath. “General, we’ve found one of the governor’s advisors.” Two soldiers dragged an elderly man into the living room and tossed him on the ground. His face was covered in soot and dust. He spread his liver-spotted hands across the floor and struggled to push himself up. The soldier kicked him in the ribs impatiently. “Up, you dog! You stand when facing the general.”

Rodion took a few steps forward while the man still lay on his back, gasping for breath and clutching the point where the soldier had kicked him. “You work for the governor?”

“I’m… a teacher.” The words left between wheezed breaths.

Rodion raised his brows, setting the picture down gently. “And what do you teach your governor?”

“History.” The old man pushed himself to sit upright but then collapsed once again after a quick gasp. He writhed on the floor, his face twisted in pain.

“Pick him up,” Rodion said, and the two soldiers lifted the professor onto a chair, where he hunched over, still unable to sit straight. Rodion towered over the old man and could see the aged skin where hair no longer covered his head. “What history have you taught the governor?” But the old man seemed to only be able to focus on controlling his own breath. Each wheezing gasp was accompanied by a light whine. “He left you behind to die. And he will not be able to come and save you. Tell us what you know, and I will promise you a quick death.”

The professor looked up, his eyes on the patch of sickle and stars on Rodion’s arm. He reached his hand up and pointed, his finger wobbling up and down. “Those symbols have been beaten before. They do not provide you with any immunity.” The finger dropped, and he leaned back in the chair.

Rodion snatched one of the rifles from his men and pressed the end of the barrel into the professor’s skull. “This will immunize me against defeat.” He placed his finger on the trigger. “You know about my people’s history? What have you told your governor about us? Hmm? Have you fed him lies of what happened in the Great War? My people have survived. The legend of the Mars family ends with me.”

The teacher’s head trembled from the pressure of the rifle against his skull. “Dean Mars will find a way to beat you.”

Rodion knocked the butt of the rifle across the teacher’s head, leaving a gash three inches long as the old man tumbled out of the chair and to the floor, where he lay there lifeless. The soldiers picked him up and went to drag him outside, but Rodion had another plan. “Wait!”

The two soldiers froze then set the body down. Rodion stepped along the faint trail of blood from the teacher’s wound. “If this is an advisor that Governor Mars listens to, then perhaps I should have him deliver a message.” Rodion pulled a knife from his belt and cut the old man’s shirt open. He pressed the tip of his blade into the teacher’s chest and carved downward.

The Pacific fleet met Dean and the Atlantic fleet along the dead coast in the south. With it they brought the news of the capital’s fall, as well as their brother’s death. It was all Dean could do to act relieved that at least his wife and nephews had survived.
And the baby.

Jason punched the wall in Dean’s cabin, cracking the wooden board in half and leaving a stain that resembled a bloodied version of his fist. “How could they let this happen?” Jason paced around the room, gently shaking his bloody hand, his eyes looking for another board to break. “How did Rodion get that type of weaponry?”

“Sit down, Jason.” Dean kept his cool demeanor, and his tone at the very least triggered Jason’s hands to release the tight clench they held. He turned his attention back to the messenger Monaghan had sent. “Where is Rodion’s army now?”

The soldier couldn’t have been older than Dean’s nephew, Kit, but the boy was significantly less confident than his own blood. Even when the young soldier stood at attention, he fidgeted. “They’ve made camp in the capital. They’ve sent out scouts along the coast and farther south, but he’s shown no movement over the past few days.”

Savoring the victory.
“Anything else?”

The grunt shifted uncomfortably. “The governess requested a time for your brother’s funeral.”

Jason sat down, the rage falling with him. For Dean it was all too surreal. Having lost both Fred and Lance within the span of only a month had been the most Mars blood shed in nearly three years. “It will be discussed upon our return. For now, tell her to make what preparations she deems necessary. I have full confidence in her judgment. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir!” The boy saluted and quickly left the room, the guard closing the door behind him and locking both Dean and Jason in the room alone.

Dean found the pendulum around his neck and cradled it gently. He looked over and saw Jason doing the same. The silver sphere felt smooth and cool against his fingertips. “We’ll have to decide who will go, and soon. We can’t afford to risk another one of us dying, and I won’t put such a burden on Kit to go in our stead if we perish.”

“I know,” Jason replied. He leaned forward, letting go of the necklace, and it dangled from his neck, swaying slightly with the rock of the boat. “How the hell did Rodion get those weapons?”

“Hawthorne.” The name left Dean’s mouth involuntarily, and Jason eyed him, confused. “The professor tried talking to me before I departed to Brazil, telling me about the symbols he saw and the letter we received from Lance about the modern weapons being traded on Australia’s black market. He warned me that the Russians could have found an old factory and started producing the weapons on a large scale. I wasn’t sure if I didn’t believe him because of his proof or because I was afraid of what it would mean if it was true.”

“Well, with Ruiz pulling a fast one on us with the Chinese, there’s no reason to doubt that he was sending supplies to the Russians too.”

Dean shook his head. “It just doesn’t make any sense. The Russians haven’t had any global trading presence since the Great War. They’ve kept to themselves. If they were getting that much ore from Brazil, we would have seen it.” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on the finished glaze of his desk. “Do you remember Uncle Matt’s stories of his trip west from the southeast shore?”

“When he sailed to Europe?”

“Yeah.”

Jason shrugged. “Not really. I was ten when he died in the Island Wars, and he wasn’t around much.”

“He mentioned heading down to the African continent to see if there were any trading posts he could find along the coast.” The thought connected to something else Hawthorne had tried to tell him.

“Did he?”

“No,” Dean said, disappointed in the memory. “But that was almost twenty years ago. Things may have changed since then. It certainly changed for us. If the Russians opened up a trading line with the Africans, then that could be where they were getting so much of their supplies. “

“Then where have the Africans been in this war? It’s just us, the Aussies, Chinese, Brazilians, and Russians. If they had an alliance with Rodion and Delun, you’d think they’d be inclined to offer soldiers or ships, neither of which we’ve seen.”

“We’ll have another chat with the professor when we go ashore.” But even as the words left Dean’s mouth, he couldn’t help but feel troubled by the churning pit in his stomach. If the losses were as great as Monaghan had written in his message, then they couldn’t help the Australians until they’d reclaimed the ground they’d lost. Rodion still didn’t have a navy, and as long as Delun stayed near the islands, they had time to regroup.

Dean and Jason both ascended to the deck, and Dean’s confidence was further solidified by the might of their fleet behind them. The farther north they sailed and the closer they moved to the coast, the faster Dean’s heart beat. He couldn’t explain his nervousness or the sense of foreboding that plagued his mind. It could be the unknown of just how vast Rodion’s army was or the fact that for the first time in half a century, there were weapons greater than what his soldiers possessed.
At least for now.

The southern-coast clans had no real port to speak of, so when Dean’s fleet arrived, they were forced to anchor offshore and take the tenders onto the sandy beaches and hike their provisions up the cliffs. It was slow going, a few of the horses and men nearly losing their footing on the way up.

When Dean arrived at the camp, his heart sank at the sight of his people, huddled in tents and huts, taken from their homes and forced into exile. The melancholy was palpable, and more than once Dean caught the nasty snarl of rage cast his way. He was losing their trust. If the deterioration of their faith continued, Dean wouldn’t have just Rodion’s army to worry about.

“This can’t be real.” Jason snuck up behind Dean, his face and clothes already covered in a light layer of sand, kicked up from the coastal winds.

“Governors.” General Monaghan’s was the first friendly face they saw, and he walked over with haste, accompanied by a few of his officers, all of whom kept their hands on the hilts of their swords. Dean wondered if they were already having issues with keeping the peace. “It’s good to see you alive and whole.”

Dean clasped the old general’s shoulder. “And you as well.” He turned back to Jason and the rest of the captains he’d brought. “I want you to bring up the provisions from the fleet. Food and medicines first, then ammunition.”
The people need to remember that we’re here to help.

Jason seemed to understand the tone and quickly echoed the orders to the others, while Dean followed the general to the tent. The walk allowed the people to see that their governor was still alive and was a chance for him to see how they felt about it.

The sentiment amongst Dean’s people was mixed. Half the faces he passed wore expressions of hope and gratitude. The others tossed their grunts and begrudged moans as the governor walked by. There hadn’t been this much dissent among his people since before the wasteland-clan wars.

But the moment Dean saw Kemena, every burden washed away. They clutched each other hungrily, their bodies pressed tight. Even through the thick wool of her dress and his clothes, he felt the heat from her body, a warmth that he’d longed for over the past weeks. When he pulled his face back, he watched her wipe a tear from the corner of her eye quickly.

“Governor.” The general waited at the entrance to his quarters, eager to debrief him on the climate of war but doing his best to keep a gentle hand in front of Kemena.

“It’s okay,” Kemena said, cupping the rough beard that had grown on his cheek. “I’ll be here when you get out.”

Dean kissed her then gently placed his hand over her stomach. At the entrance to Monaghan’s quarters,  he turned back to see her still standing in the same spot, and again he saw it, the lighthouse on the coast, guiding him home, letting him know that no matter how bad things were or how bleak they would become, he could always find his way back.

General Monaghan immediately went to the map, the figures of their enemy swarming over the capital and much of the lands to the south. “Governor, the losses we suffered during Rodion’s first wave of attack were crippling. We held the capital for as long as we could, but his advanced weaponry was too much. He has armored vehicles, automatic weapons, and the radios to communicate his battle efforts in real time. With the casualties at the capital, our fighting force is down sixty percent.”

The number nearly collapsed Dean into his chair. “How many wounded?” He knew they couldn’t withstand another assault from Rodion’s men. Without more men and weapons, their next battle would be their last, even with the efforts of their fleet.

“Five percent,” Monaghan said, shrugging. “It was much higher, but the lack of medical supplies brought it down significantly. Sir”—Monahan moved closer—“we can’t keep control of our own lands.”

“And what of the clans?” Dean asked. “Did they suffer the same casualties as us?”

A few of the officers glowered angrily and others cast their gaze down, but only Monaghan looked him in the eye. “Sir, the clans never arrived. We haven’t heard a word from them since the fighting began.”

Dean smacked the figurines off the table, sending them flying into the cloth tent walls and then crashing to the dirt and sand. Half the map hung from the table, while the end with Rodion’s forces kept the parchment anchored. “Craven bastards.”

The clans had pledged their alliance, swore they would fight together. If they had shown, it could have been the difference between retreat and victory. It would have easily pushed the number of soldiers in battle back to their favor.
They could have flanked Rodion, taken his weapons, turned the tide, they could have—

“Governor?” Monaghan asked.

Dean’s knuckles whitened from the hard grip on the table. His entire was body tense, his spine so stiff it could snap in half. “Has Rodion made any demands? Any attempts to send an emissary?”

“No, Governor.”

Dean didn’t expect Rodion to; the Russian was winning handily, and Dean had no idea when Rodion would order his soldiers to march. Time was of the essence. Dean regained his reserve and pulled the map back up to the table, the officers helping replace the fallen figurines. He tapped the Northwest port, clear of any of Rodion’s ships. “We’ll send the fleet north to the capital and bombard Rodion’s forces by sea. If we’re lucky, the Australians have given Delun enough trouble for him to call back the ships he leant Rodion to ferry his men across the Pacific. We’ll need to outfit each vessel with as many long-range guns as possible. There’s no way of telling what other technology Rodion may have at his disposal.”

“We think he’s already shown us his hand, Governor,” Monaghan said. “Rodion doesn’t strike me as a man to hold back.”

“Nor do I, but with the casualties at what they are, we can’t take any chances.” Dean moved his finger to Jason’s region in the east. “Have we received any word of attacks in the southeast?” God help them if Rodion had managed to already send forces. It was their last remaining stronghold.

“No, sir. The southeast has yet to be touched.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way. I want supply lines opened up immediately, whatever support can be lent will be had. If Rodion chooses to advance before or even during our naval bombardment, then we won’t have the ability to protect our people from slaughter, and continuing south will only take us farther away from food and water. There isn’t anything in the deserts that can help us.”

“And the wasteland clans?” the general asked.

The fact that they had gone back on their word and left Dean’s people to fight alone was cause for concern. Rodion may have reached out to them, bribed them, but that didn’t fit the general’s profile. “I’ll ride out and meet them myself, try and discover what happened.” He hoped it was nothing more than a lack of communication, but the fact that they’d received no word at all didn’t give the belief much weight.

Jason entered, and the generals and officers gave a slight bow. He looked over the map then to Dean. “Gentlemen, I need the room.” The tent emptied, and Jason took a seat in the corner, his knees bouncing uncomfortably, but remained silent. Finally, just before Dean was about to speak up, Jason broke his silence. “I want to take a team into the camp and kill Rodion.”

“Jason, that’s folly. You’d be dead before you made it past the sentries.” Dean waved the idea off, but his brother kept pushing.

“We get some of our best men, ones that know the land better than we do.” Jason rose from the chair, inching forward, keeping his voice hushed. “We go at night. If we can get rid of Rodion, the rest will be too scatterbrained to mount any type of strategy, and we can pick them apart.”

Dean rounded on his younger brother, shoving him hard in the chest and pushing him back. “Lance isn’t even in the ground yet, and you’re looking to join him?”

Jason’s temper flared, and he flipped the table, the figurines crashing to the sand and earth. His face flushed red and the vein along his neck pulsated with rage. “Two of our brothers are dead! Killed by the order of the same man!”

“This isn’t just about our brothers anymore, Jason, it’s about our people, our land! We are holding on by a thread! You don’t think I want revenge? You don’t think I want to see Rodion’s head on a spike after I take it from his body with my own two hands? You’re being foolish, brother, and I won’t allow your own follies to kill what family we have left.”