Chapter 43

The scene at the fort stood in stark contrast to the city’s eerie, deserted streets. Here, the gates lay battered and bent inward, a testament to the immense force that had breached them. As Carrack stepped through the broken threshold into the courtyard, signs of a fierce struggle were evident all around. To the untrained eye, the chaos might have seemed random, but to Carrack, every scar, every displaced stone spoke volumes of the violence that had occurred.

The air hung heavy with the memory of the battle, a silent testament to the frantic efforts of those who had fought and fallen here. The ground bore the chaotic dance of panicked feet, etched into the dirt that had been mud during the fray. Oddly, rifles were nowhere to be found, yet the remnants of spent bullet casings were embedded in the earth, a grim reminder of the desperate defense mounted by the fort’s inhabitants.

Carrack stood amidst the remnants of battle, a deep sadness welling within him for the men he had led, now lost to an unknown fate. The devastation wrought upon the fort spoke of a desperate and brutal confrontation, one that left him feeling painfully absent and ignorant of his soldiers’ fates. He wrestled with the impulse to seek answers, fearful of uncovering truths too grim to bear. Pushing forward, he continued his solemn search for the violin, leaving the ghostly courtyard behind.

The interior of the fort bore its own scars of conflict. Bullet casings littered the floors, doors lay splintered, the radio room blackened by fire. A pungent stench wafted from the provisions area, signaling the rot of what once was the fort’s sustenance. Climbing the stairs to his quarters, Carrack paused before the closed door, apprehension tightening his chest. He pushed it open slowly, stepping into a room that was as he left it last.

The room, once a sanctuary, now felt foreign and claimed by an unseen presence. Carrack, intent on a brief stay, quickly reached under his bed for the familiar violin case. As he laid it on the bed and opened it, the sight of the violin—a relic he’d once deemed too precious to destroy—sent a chill through him. Memories of a journal entry about sparing it flashed in his mind, but as he reached out, a creeping dread stopped him. Without a second glance at the room, he snapped the case shut and left with the instrument, a heavy sense of unease accompanying his departure.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

Pausing at the staircase’s base, Carrack mulled over the dubious deal amidst the backdrop of the fort’s violent upheaval and the haunting influence of the Mistress. Distrust was his natural stance, but the pervasive sense of helplessness gnawed at him, accentuating his need for an edge.

Suddenly, inspiration struck—the dynamite stored in the catacombs. If it remained, it could offer him a sliver of control in this situation. With renewed urgency, he sprinted through the halls, descending into the catacombs below in search of the explosive cache.

Carrack’s return to the catacombs, once the site of Alaina’s dark practices, was a blur of urgency. He knew of two rooms that stored such supplies and quickly set about searching them. The scene was one of total pillage: smashed crates, empty rifle racks, and looted ammunition boxes.

“Fuck,” he muttered, scouring the ground, desperately checking every nook and cranny. Then, amidst the debris under a desk, a spark of hope: two sticks of dynamite, one with a fuse intact. “There we are,” he breathed out, a mix of relief and disbelief at his find. As he examined the dynamite for viability, he couldn’t help but marvel at the luck that the chaos which must have happened in here hadn’t led to an inadvertent explosion, obliterating the fort.

Securing the dynamite within his jacket, Carrack made to exit. But an inexplicable pull led him to one final room. He paused at the doorway, his gaze fixed on the now-empty table that had once supported the recuperating Captain Foeham. He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed since he was last here, and Carrack found himself hoping that Foeham had either fought valiantly or passed peacefully before the fort’s calamity.

Approaching the table, he placed a hand on its surface, allowing a wave of guilt and sorrow to engulf him. After a heavy silence filled with the ghosts of what might have been, Carrack exhaled deeply, shouldering the weight of his commander’s burden as he turned to leave the room, the catacombs, and the fort behind, ready to confront whatever awaited him in the city.