Front and center, Michael led his platoon up a road leading straight north, the same avenue his platoon used to enter the neighborhood. The same avenue Michael had ventured up to deal his fair share of death to the raiders. His paladins stood in a line from sidewalk to sidewalk with their heavy weapons, their formation broken only by the wrecks of vehicles along their path. They were prepared to be the first among the platoon to meet the enemy, but Michael’s knights followed close behind.
Instead of moving from house to house, the knights walked in the open through the road and the sidewalks on either. This allowed the platoon to advance quickly up the avenue in their eagerness to assault the raider positions, until Michael caught sight of raiders clad in white armor. Dozens of raiders clad in white moved from East to West and away from their fallback positions. Paladins opened fire, with Michael the first among them to do so, but the raiders continued their movement undeterred.
Michael ordered a halt and called up Knight Sergeant Hoyte, who had advanced against the raiders in the West. “The raiders in there are in full retreat, aren’t they?”
“Many raiders, hundreds. Stragglers fleeing north with their wounded.”
“And they haven’t prepared any defenses?”
“No, sir. As far as I know.”
Oliver fell out of formation to speak with Michael. “Those raiders ahead might be moving to secure their retreat in the West, because no positions were prepared to fall back to.”
“Those Wardens are more organized than their counterparts. Different group entirely. Maybe the other raiders didn’t feel it was necessary to organize themselves properly. If they even know how.” Hoyte said, supporting Oliver’s assessment.
“Maybe we could force the raiders out of their positions if we press hard enough in the West.” Michael said, considering his options. Dead raiders in one place was the same as dead read in another, but he could lure both groups together. “Change of plans. We’ll attack the raiders in the West. If the raiders want to protect their retreat in the West, more of their number must be diverted away from their defensive positions from the East.”
—
“They’re really coming right at us.” Feris said as she peeked through her binoculars at the incoming enemy. “We’re not even a threat, are we?”
“This is the best outcome.” Sylvia said and patted her company sergeant’s helmet. “Remember, we’re only here to distract them.”
Fox Company had suffered the least casualties among the companies that Julius dragged south for his punitive campaign against the Brotherhood, nearly seventy wardens of her original ninety. This left Sylvia with three platoons as well as a handful of runners, once subunits were combined to make up for casualties. It was the reason why Fox Company was assigned to the rear guard, because no other single company had the strength.
Sylvia led her company away from Warden lines in the East to nestle themselves between the Brotherhood and their former allies in the West, the Mercers and Mariners. The scheme made many of her wardens nervous, but the risk was necessary. The defenses the Wardens had prepared would not be enough to protect them from the Brotherhood. Furthermore, the Wardens were slowed down despite their complete abandonment of their dead. Unless Sylvia could buy them more time, the wounded would also have to be abandoned.
Fox Company took up positions in six adjacent houses for cover, each occupied by a different squad. Sylvia and her command section sheltered with Sergeant Vogel’s squad in one of the houses in the center. Noah was among them, having been used to reinforce their losses. Winds howled in the silence as Fox Company waited silently.
The thundering boots of the Brotherhood’s PA units creeped closer and Sylvia dispatched Feris to lead half of Fox Company to a position to the rear, further north. There, they took up positions in another block of houses immediately behind the ones they departed, as preparation for the rest of the company’s retreat.
Sylvia gave the signal to open fire on the approaching Brotherhood forces. Their PA units were entirely unharmed, as expected, but Fox Company had their attention. The Brotherhood sprayed Fox Company’s positions with minigun fire, combined with salvos from a gatling laser. Wood cracked and split open, forcing wardens to lay prone or be shot to pieces.
With no opportunities to return fire, Sylvia ordered a withdrawal to the next group of houses behind their positions. Runners were dispatched to deliver the orders, but Sylvia didn’t begrudge them their choice to crawl close to the ground. The orders reached the squads in the other houses soon enough and, like columns of ants, the company crawled to safety.
Once the houses covered the company’s retreat from behind, Sylvia called for her wardens to stand and run to safety. Many among them stained the ground red as they dragged themselves forward and lifted themselves onto their feet. A few squads from the neighboring houses were not as large as they should have been and Sylvia knew the company would suffer more casualties before the day’s end.
The Brotherhood’s infantry forces ran ahead of their PA units and entered four of the houses that Sylvia’s company had left. They weren’t as numerous as the wardens were, only around two dozen, but they were determined. Despite Feris’ half of Fox Company providing covering fire, the Brotherhood’s infantry harassed Sylvia’s half with laser fire, both accurate and precise, as they retreated into their positions.
There were few casualties among the wardens and, without suppressing fire from the enemy PA units, many were emboldened to return fire. Wardens sprayed the Brotherhood’s positions with their service rifles, but several more wardens were wounded in the exchange. A bolt of laser fire glanced past the side of Sylvia’s helmet and she fell to the floor. Vogel knelt beside her and helped her onto her feet, but two wardens nearby dropped dead.
Sylvia ran to the rear of the house and checked the status of Feris’ withdrawal to their next fallback line, then ordered another withdrawal. Feris’ half-company had just entered their new positions, but they didn’t need to set up camp to provide covering fire. Sylvia’s own half couldn’t hold out for much longer and she trusted Feris to lead her half of Fox Company’s bounding overwatch.
Wardens fled towards the next group of houses away from the Brotherhood once again, but were forced to cross an open street. With many of the old vehicles along its length closer to hollow wrecks, stripped as they were of the metal meant to cover their chassis, they hindered movement without providing cover.
The Brotherhood’s PA units fired through gaps between the houses and sprayed Sylvia’s wardens with gunfire. A dozen wardens fell dead, followed by the dozen that tried to drag the wounded to safety. Fox Company was reduced to nearly half its total in the blink of an eye.
Private Noah stood from a pile of corpses, having survived yet another burst of fire from the Brotherhood’s heavy weapons. The Brotherhood’s monster thundered forward, angry and furrowed brows forged into the metal of its helmet, targeting Private Noah specifically for death. Focused fire from the gatling laser erupted in his direction. There was a careless expression on Private Noah’s face, as his eyes met Sylvia’s, before he was reduced to a red mist.
Sylvia assumed the wounded would not survive, the Brotherhood wasn’t known for taking prisoners, and hated what she had to do next, but there was no other choice. The dying would drag down the living. She ordered her wardens to abandon the wounded to their fate and get themselves to safety. Nearby, Feris took it upon herself to echo the orders as she was forced to pull a warden into an adjacent house.
The Brotherhood sprayed Fox Company’s new positions with more gunfire and Sylvia sat herself against a wall, her heart pounding furiously. A dull ache pulsed in her shoulder and she could hear the blood pumping in her ears, see the floating lights in her eyes, but what remained of Fox Company would be wiped out if she didn’t act.
“Run to the church!” She called out, forcing herself to her feet. “Run to the church or die here!”
Sylvia pulled several panicked wardens to their feet and yelled for them to keep moving. Her runners were dead or wounded, so she ran to the other houses and repeated the orders herself, to make sure her voice wasn’t drowned out under the thunder of the Brotherhood’s guns. Wardens ran and screamed with panic as the enemy fired in their direction, but Feris corralled them to where they needed to go with the help of the company’s more veteran wardens.
Fox Company was now in full retreat, fleeing between houses without any semblance of order. Behind them, the Brotherhood pursued relentlessly. However, their pursuit was naturally slowed by their infantry, who moved between cover as they fired. Despite the earlier exchanges of fire with a force that initially outnumbered them nearly three-to-one, their output of laser fire had not dwindled. Sylvia felt as though the Brotherhood’s infantry forces had suffered no casualties of their own, but she wasn’t going to stick around and find out if she was right.
To the West, a mass of people moved through the streets. They fired on Fox Company, who were too busy fleeing for their lives to return fire, but also fired on the Brotherhood. It redirected the Brotherhood’s attention and they moved westward to fight their new enemy, whom Sylvia knew were stragglers affiliated with either the Mercers or the Mariners.
The company crossed an empty stretch of ground and filtered into a church situated just south of McSorely Creek. It was a location that Feris had picked out that was close to retreating elements of the Warden’s former allies, but far enough that Fox Company could safely retreat back to the Warden positions to the east. At that moment, what mattered was that it was safe and quiet.
Wardens seated themselves in the pews, leaning back and allowing their heads to dangle. Vogel breathed a deep sigh of relief as Feris patted him on the back. A young private complained about the dampness between his legs, swearing that it was blood and not piss, and a nearby corporal pointed as she laughed, along with anyone else who had the energy. Sylvia twisted her head, feeling the joints in her neck pop. She was tired from all the running, but the emotional toll from the recent fighting, and the recent losses, weighed heavier than her fatigue.
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After a few minutes of rest, Sylvia called out as confidently as she could, calming the tremors in her voice. “Back on your feet. We might be safe for now, but we can’t stay here.”
From the church, Sylvia led the remnants of her company along her planned path of retreat. The sound of the Brotherhood’s gunfire disappeared into the distance, firing at people that weren’t them. It was part of Sylvia’s plan to pit the Warden’s former allies against the Brotherhood, inspired by an idea she had earlier in the day, but on a larger scale. She considered that she should feel some guilt, but Fox Company’s recent losses dulled the sensation.
—
The rear guard sent to protect the raider’s retreat had abandoned them, having lost a substantial portion of their number, leaving nothing between the fleeing raiders and Michael’s platoon. Raiders scrambled down the southern banks of a wide river and waded through waters that reached their waists. There were many among them who held wounded comrades on an arm, dragging them along, or carrying them outright over their shoulders.
A few raiders turned to catch sight of Michael’s platoon as they climbed a ridge to look down upon them. There was screaming, pushing, and pulling that increased in intensity as a frenzy took hold over the raiders. Oliver laughed, but Michael didn’t share his enthusiasm for the killing to come. It was his duty, not his pleasure.
“Ad victoriam!” Michael yelled and fired on the raiders, actions echoed by the rest of his platoon.
The raiders on the banks died first and their bodies tumbled towards the creek, staining its waters pink. The raiders in the water died next and they dropped into the water. With their soaked clothing and their armor, they were too heavy to float away, but were too light to sink to the creekbed. They bobbed in place and hindered the path of anyone behind them, who quickly followed them into death.
The creek was stained a deeper shade of red now. The raiders on the northern bank of the creek were luckier than the rest, but not by much. A few managed to climb the northern ridge and drop over it, crawling to safety, but most were shot dead. At the end of it all, hundreds of raiders lay in and around the creek. Hundreds.
Never before had Michael seen such a large number of dead in a single location, not even during the Brotherhood’s conquest of Portland. The soldiers in his platoon cheered and cheered, “Ad victoriam!” But Michael stood silent. Dying raiders cried out as they grasped idly. At the ground, themselves, or the bodies beside them.
These raiders weren’t so different from the Brotherhood in the end. They were men and women who lived their lives, had families of their own. Maybe they weren’t truly raiders, but it didn’t matter. Blood was the price of victory. They shouldn’t have raised weapons against the Brotherhood, not if they wanted to live.
“That’s what these savages get!” Oliver called out and strolled to Michael, spraying the wounded raiders with his minigun. “If only one of Cormac’s scouts were here to take pictures. This is going to be one hell of a story to tell everyone back at camp.”
The scribe assigned to Michael’s paladin squad knelt beside him, dropping his pack to operate the radio stitched into its side. The only one with enough signal strength to reach White Sprawls. “I’ll make a report, sir. This was a great victory and HQ would be interested to hear about it.”
“Maybe they’ll throw a celebration in our honor.” Oliver said.
There was a hollow feeling in Michael’s chest. Not because of all the death, he had long grown accustomed to it, but for his platoon’s reaction to it. To think his platoon believed it warranted a celebration. To think High Command would agree with them. It seemed to Michael then that the enthusiasm of the Brotherhood’s soldiers were proportionate to the amount of blood they spilled.
Michael wondered how much blood would become too much for the Brotherhood to stomach, if there was such a limit, but only briefly. Michael wouldn’t bring down the mood, the platoon was looking to him for leadership now. They were his soldiers, entrusted to his command, and they fought well. He wouldn’t take their joy from them.
“The raiders will think twice before they challenge the Brotherhood again. This was a great victory and our fallen Brothers of Steel are avenged with a river of raider blood. All thanks to your valor in the field. Ad victoriam, let’s go home.”
The scribe's radio buzzed with activity and he reported a message from HQ. Blair was impressed with the platoon’s adventure in the North. Even Mortis took his time to voice his approval through the radio. By the time the platoon returned to camp, they would receive an enthusiastic welcome. Which made everyone eager to return home.
Michael led them out of the suburbs, back onto the Pacific Highway, and they made quick time back to camp. Mostly their eagerness drove them forward, excited for the revelry to come. Michael himself was eager for the feast, but after hours of marching and hours of continuous fighting, their steady cadence was evidence of their rigorous training.
Once they reached White Sprawls, after an uneventful march down the highway, the gates were thrown open for them. Soldiers from all three orders, as well as the initiates and aspirants, cheered their return as they strolled into camp. Many cried out, “Ad victoriam!”
Encompassing most of the muster field was a large, rectangular pavilion tent. Despite the cold air, the braziers around the edges of the tent kept the area warm. Along the length of the tent were long tables, covered with food and drinks. They had been left to sit out, but nobody was allowed to partake in the feast quite yet. Michael knew they were waiting on Lance 27 to begin.
Michael made his way to HQ as his platoon headed towards the engineering bay in the gymnasium. Mortis happened to be in the HQ and was overtly happy with the outcome, his initial apprehension of Michael’s promotion to sergeant was gone entirely. “Luck is just as valuable to a field officer as skill,” Mortis made sure to say before leaving to attend to other business. Something about cake.
Once free from Mortis’ distraction, Michael saluted Head Paladin Blair and gave his report of his recent mission. From his decision to strike northwards to his encounter with the raider rearguard and their retreating forces. Blair dubbed Michael’s victory the Massacre at McSorely Creek, named for the length of water where it occurred.
Not a river, as Michael had thought, but labeled as a creek in the Brotherhood’s pre-war maps of the area. Furthermore, a massacre didn’t sound as glorious, or respectable, as Michael had hoped for. It was going to be attributed to him in the scribe’s archives of Brotherhood personnel as his first mission as a field officer.
When Michael voiced his objection to the usage of the word “massacre” in his record, Blair made sure to add “victorious” to make sure history knew that Michael and the Brotherhood were on the winning side. “The Victorious Massacre at McSorely Creek” hardly sounded better, but Michael said nothing more and was dismissed to prepare for the upcoming festivities.
He had blundered into his great victory, that was the truth of it. With some small caution, his paladins were able to avoid casualties from grenade rifle fire. Afterwards, they leaned into the strength of their armor and heavy weapons. The knights had far more finesse than the paladins, they needed it without power armor, but the task force relied on brute force to win the day.
The raiders suffered as dearly as they did, because they became disjointed. They inflicted heavy casualties to Abel’s platoon at the start of their advance south, but they had become disorganized. The raiders had no staying power to resist his paladins until more grenade rifles could be sent to reinforce them. Or even to buy time for their retreat.
Michael went to the showers, after collecting the change of clothes Dominic had left for him in the engineering bay, and he found that his task force took their time to clean or groom themselves thoroughly as they talked amongst themselves. Almost like a mini celebration of their own. Michael gave them a few quick smiles and nods, responding to their attempts at conversation with few words, before standing off to the side to focus on himself. He wasn’t in the mood for a long shower and left the locker room before the others.
In the pavilion, the scent of grilled meats and other food wafted into Michael’s nose. It made his mouth water, but the feast couldn’t begin until all the guests of honor were among them. He was forced to stand by a curtain wall and a carousel of congratulations was sent Michael’s way. They all said the same thing, over and over again, but Michael remained patient. Smile and wave, he reminded himself, smile and wave.
A paladin approached, a sergeant denoted by the insignia of rank stitched onto the left sleeve of his coat. Three chevrons below a paladin’s shield. There were a small number of paladin sergeants in White Sprawls and Michael recognized the man. The one who was almost assigned to lead his recent mission, who almost had the chance to seize Michael’s glory for himself.
“Paladin Jetson.” Michael said to the man who was now his equal in status. Jetson merely smiled and saluted Michael, forcing him to do the same or else slight the paladin’s honor.
“Paladin Michael, I wanted to congratulate you on your victory before others. It was well fought, I couldn’t have done it better myself.”
“The odds were against us, but the platoon fought well. Speaking of the platoon, here they come.”
The rest of the platoon filtered into the pavilion with Oliver at the group’s head, followed by Hoyte, Anis, then the others. Another round of cheers resounded through the pavilion and a handful members of the platoon wandered away from the group to pull some romantic partner into a deep kiss, despite the presence of the entire camp gathered around them. Michael then considered that they were no longer his platoon, which would have been dissolved as a formation once they arrived at camp.
Blair called for a formal beginning of the feast and everyone seated themselves, swatting at a couple who took their time parting from a kiss with a rolled up napkin. Michael’s platoon sat at the tables of honor, three tables grouped together to seat the three squads of the platoon. They were seated beside the table occupied by the general officers in High Command, close to the bonfire.
Mortis leaned over and raised a full cup of wine to Michael, which sloshed around and spilled over the side to stain the white fabric covering the table below, before knocking cups together with Torland and Blair, who sat on either side of him. They were joined by a few of the senior officers from the three orders, the ranking commanders whose responsibilities were largely administrative.
Paladin Connors and Paladin Jameson, who commanded the Brotherhood’s vassal settlements in Seattle. Knight Boston, who served as camp quartermaster, and Knight Samuels, who oversaw the engineering bay as its proctor. Scribe Abrams, who directed the camp’s field hospital, and Scribe Mattias, who tended to the old library. There were others who were absent, but they were likely conducting other business. Important business, to be missing the feast.
On the side opposite of high command were the sergeants of the orders, themselves gathered in three separated tables. The first of which, closest to the seats of honor, were the sergeants of the Order of Paladins, where Michael caught sight of Jetson sneaking a glance his way. The following tables after them were assigned to the Order of Knights, then the Order of Scribes.
Curiously, Sentinel Abel was missing from the pavilion, as well as Elder Constantine. After some time in their absence, Blair took it upon himself to address the pavilion. “The Elder and the Sentinel are busy drawing up new plans to take the North, so I have the privilege of presiding over the festivities.” Blair gestured to the platoon. “We are gathered to honor these brave soldiers and their great victory at McSorely Creek. The corpses of hundreds, raiders all, are monument to their valor in the field.”