Through the thunder and rain, gunshots rang out as the Four Peaks Militia closed in on an Order of the White One compound, high up in the foothills surrounding Porterville; their first assault since they had all gathered the weeks prior. It was one of the larger ones in the area; an estimated fifty cultists currently resided in there, according to the reconnaissance, ‘The Sage,’ had gotten, and it was also the closest to the entrance to the Cove.
Once, before this all started, it had been known as the Lighthouse Gospel Church, and a few of the people there had gone there on occasion; Easter, Christmas, and the other important holidays one puts on their sunday’s best for. The old sign had been ripped out of the ground, and was now being used as part of the barricaded fence.
It was thanks to that Fox thing’s spells of concealment they were even able to get this close without being blown apart by the howitzer they had. The howitzer that the Four Peaks Militia were going to claim for themselves tonight.
They were a group of men who had served together with Seth Raurlief in Iraq and Afghanistan. About a week and a half ago, Seth’s son came to each of their homes and explained what was going on; about the cult working against the interest of the US, their plans to dominate the area, and how the US military turned a blind eye to it all. It was a little hard to believe until they saw the missives.
“Grenade! Take cover!” One of the men, Alfredo Jacundie called as he ducked behind a large granite boulder.
The grenade exploded and took a chunk of the flaky rock with it, and embedded itself in the man’s leg and lower back. He fell backward, hissing in pain as blood pooled on the muddy ground beneath him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old water canteen filled with a bright red liquid, and put it to his lips before downing the shimmering liquid. The stone and metal shrapnel embedded in his skin pushed out and fell to the ground as the wounds sealed. All that remained was a little bit of pain. Such a thing wouldn’t have been possible half a year ago. The man picked up one of the pineapple-like frags and turned it over in between his fingers.
“Suppressing fire! Calvary incoming!”
The man snapped out of his temporary trance, picked up his rifle, and began firing at the chain link fence of the compound. He heard someone within screaming in pain and wondered if they had access to the miracle drink. They fired as five trucks screeched up the hill; the guns mounted on their beds spitting fire — actual fire, as their bullets burned holes through the wood of the outpost overlooking the path. The wood began to smolder as the men within the cradle of the tower tried to escape and they slowly began to collapse into a streaming heap. As the front truck neared the barricaded fence, the gate flung open as a massive shadow stepped in to fill the gap.
A head topped with a pair of curved and pointed horns, and a pair of broad hooves. It was something the man had seen in video games and old movies, and armed with a spear as long as its body was tall; a minotaur. Something straight out of myth had stepped into reality. Dread filled the man. It was the first time he saw an Efran outside of those friendly Efrans within the Four Peaks Cove.
The truck’s machine gun turned toward the tank-like minotaur and opened fire. The bullets hit, judging by the slight jolt of the creature’s shoulders, but if it felt pain, it sure as hell didn’t show it. The truck sped up to ram into the minotaur, and the minotaur, in turn, stabbed downward through the engine block, and the truck died in its spot. Oil and gas pooled on the ground. The minotaur grabbed the truck and lifted it off the ground. The people inside scrambled to pull off their seatbelts as the minotaur tossed them to the side and into one of the trees that grew out of the ground.
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Every single gun on our side turns onto the monster. Smaller calibers bounce off of him and fall to the mud; twinkling like brass coins as he points his spear forward. Large dogs, bulls, and even mule deer all bound in briar, rush forth from an invisible portal behind him. The militia turned their guns away from the large minotaur and toward the rushing animals. And though the bullets hit and tore chunks of flesh and fur off, the animals still charged. One man was gored through with a bull’s horn and tossed five or six feet into the air. Another had become pinned down by a pair of pitties. If it weren’t for the fact that half of the face of one of the dogs had been blown clean off, they would have been tearing his throat out. One had been trampled by the deer, and still another climbed a nearby tree to avoid the raving teeth of a captured bear.
The Order of the White turn their guns towards the pinned-down militia and open fire, but the bullets are intercepted as a large white wall of muddy ice juts out from the ground. The bullets smashed against it, but it held firm. The briar-bound animals stopped moving as well, as an icicle, as long as the minotaur’s lance, and as wide as the creature’s arm flew through the air and pierced the creature through the chest. Seth Raurlief, the Sword of the Four Peaks had finally made it. With a single swing of his silvery long sword, he cut the head of the minotaur off of its shoulders. It rolled into the mud, and its body slumped to the ground.
“Get the wounded out of here! We’ll heal them back at the cove! If you’re not doing that, push in!”
With that order, the men and women of the Four Peaks Militia scrambled and pulled the wounded members back, and loaded them into one of the trucks in the back, while the rest pushed through the fence. Alfredo was one of them. His AR, which he had gotten to go hunting with his father, brother, and sons burned as he unloaded into a man’s chest. Seth rushed in afterward, striking down three with a single stroke. The trucks rolled in; rocking unevenly over the body of the minotaur as their .50 cals blared and tore apart human flesh. It was a sickening thing, but one that Alfredo steeled himself to endure. These people were no longer his countrymen. They were enemy combatants who worked to bring about the end of the world. Even if he recognized some of the faces in the quick glimpses he caught before the flashing of his muzzle contorted their bodies into unrecognizable heaps that fell in the mud.
The milita cleared the three buildings that were on the premises; a large temple building where the services would be held a smaller guest house; the parish where the children’s sunday school was and a large barn just down the slope a little in the back of the property that had been used as a congregating place for revivals and potlucks. Within that barn they found fifteen people; huddled and shivering. Bruised and scarred.
“It’s okay,” Alfredo said as he reached out his hand. “You’re safe now.”
That sentence alone was enough to get the people there crying for joy.
As the last of the gunshots rang out through that stormy night, and the gunsmoke mixed in the air with the scents of wet loam, rotting wood, and burning blood that signaled the end of the brief exchange, the weight of knowing that over fifty human lives were lost that night fell on Aflredo. He sighed heavily as the adrenaline animating him fled from his system and the trembling of mortal terror overwhelmed him, just as it had done ever since he had come back to the States after his tours.
As those in the barn looked over him, he knew he couldn’t collapse into misery just yet. He checked for any suffering from major wounds and helped them into the trucks and vans that they were to drive back to Seth’s house, along with the news that the Four Peaks had achieved their first victory.