I had already made the decision to flee the arena. It was still the right choice as the quad mech twitched and died, now more than ever. I half scrambled and half slid down from the debris pile, narrowly avoiding getting gashed by a metal beam that stuck out, leaving Petrov’s very dead body behind. I hit firm ground and took off running.

I could still hear cannon fire and the clash of metal from the far side of the ruined factory. But there were enough mech-high piles of brick and twisted girders scattered about that even when I glanced over my shoulder in that direction, I didn't see anything of the fight. I certainly didn't stop to look.

Around me, bullets started to land, licking up puffs of dust and spanging off debris nearby. Somebody up above on the viewing platforms was firing my way. The Russian soldiers up there must have been given the order to shoot anything that moved. Returning fire with just a handgun would have been pointless and suicidal. I just picked up my pace and headed for the exit.

The pile of debris here had been packed down a bit by two tanks driving over it, so I only slowed down slightly as I made my way up over the pile and out through the hole.

Behind the factory wall was a wide boulevard lined by warehouses and other industrial structures.

The two tanks had come out this exit were both here, mine and Sergeant Wysocki's.

"Come on, Sergeant!" he yelled from the turret hatch. There was a thunk and a sprang of a bullet ricocheting off the armor of his tank, and he kept his head low, barely poking it out of the hatch. Even though we were past the outer wall of the factory, the corner of the viewing platform could still had a vantage on us.

I sprinted for my tank. The gunner and loader were crouched low because the open top turret provided little protection. I sprang up on the rear deck, my boots clanging on the grate over the engine compartment.

"Go, go, go!" I yelled.

I then almost lost my balance as the machine lurched into motion. I grabbed wildly and steadied myself on the gun recoil mechanism. I don't know if Wysocki's tank was faster or its driver was just more aggressive, but he roared past us down the road and got out in front. Black smoke bellowed from his exhaust pipe, obscuring the street ahead. Our engine and the clash of tracks on cement were a deafening cacophony. Surfing on the top of the tank, I really wished for the machine gun I had dropped back in the arena.

We were fast coming up on an intersection. Wysocki stood tall out of his turret hatch and was peering towards the street signs. He yelled something and pointed to the right. They took the corner at full speed. His tank wasn't fast enough to do a caterpillar drift, but it did slide a little as it rocketed around onto the side road.

Before we reached the next intersection, two Russian TF-17 knockoffs came around the corner. They pulled around the corner together and swung their guns in our direction. Had they been warned about us? The 35mm gun was tiny by tank standards, but it still makes a hell of a flash when it's being shot right at you. Another shell ripped the air beside me and flew off down the street to explode somewhere else.

Wysocki's aim was considerably better. His gun roared and the tank that had just fired blew up. Whatever he hit inside made an impressive ball of fire. The turret popped off, lifted several meters in the air, and fell to the street. The forward gunner's hatch, same as on our tanks, was a sloped double door like the cellar on the side of an old farmhouse. These panels slammed open, unleashing a gout of flame and smoke.

I ducked low as the second Russian tank's turret spewed machine gun fire from its secondary gun. The Russian tanks had offered two choices of turret weapons: a heavy water-jacketed machine gun or a small caliber cannon. The turrets were so small they couldn't hold much else. With the right ammunition, the cannon could still take on mechs, and the machine gun would be effective with a good gunner.

We were too close to bring my tank's howitzer to bear. It wasn't really set up for firing on the move. At this range, the weapon was such massive overkill that even if we'd hit them, we might have been disabled by flying pieces of their tank. I make it sound like we chose not to fire, but the reality is, at the speed we were going and in the confusion of the moment, we simply barreled past the Russian tanks.

As we did, I jumped off the back of mine and grabbed wildly for the TF-17's turret. I don't know why I did. Something about this body made fear a distant concept, and fearlessness in a soldier was a dangerous thing. In the heat of combat, it tended to make you do something stupid. It might earn you a medal, but that didn't necessarily make it less stupid.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

The Russian tank's treads were just below my feet, and the impact of me landing on the side of the turret strained my arms, but I managed to hang on.

I drew one of my .45s and pulled myself up enough to reach the front of the turret. The gun ports on turrets of this era were just a slot in the metal and not the fancy armored periscope arrangement of future tanks. I angled my gun towards the center of the turret, lined up my gun with a slot, and aimed it towards the center of the turret.

This had the effect of pointing it almost directly back at me, which was disconcerting. I fired. There was a cry and a clang from inside the turret. I quickly angled my aim down slightly and fired again. This time there was a cry but not another clang, and I assumed I had struck my target.

This had been a dumb idea, and it was time to get out of here. I let go of the turret and flung myself from the tank. I landed, rolling and skidding, and was on my feet at a run an instant later.

I looked up to see my tank a dozen yards away and still moving off. I set myself to run after it, but another sound caught my attention. Coming up the street behind us were several armored cars, the same Italian models we had seen in the factory. I ducked around the side of the TF-17 just as the first one's machine gun opened fire. Bullets rattled off the tank's body but didn't come near me.

On the back of the TF-17, just in front of me, was a massive wrench. My mechanic's knowledge told me it was for dismounting the tracks for repair. I holstered my pistol and grabbed it off the tank. A three-foot metal club might not seem much against an armored car, but these armored cars were based on very early model automobiles. Their wheels were spoked like bicycle tires and made of wood, with only a thin rubber tread around the outer rim.

I crouched behind the tank and waited for the first one to roll past. As the car pulled into view, I swung, digging low like a batter chasing a slider. The big wrench hit the hardwood spokes with a bone-jarring impact. It crashed right through one and bounced off another. The armored car rolled on past. The spinning spokes spit my wrench out, which nearly smashed me in the shins as I jumped away.

The armored car rolled a few meters more, its machine gun still firing at our retreating tanks. Then the wheel gave way with a splintering crash, and the whole car tilted to one side. Had the driver turned into it, he might have kept the vehicle from going completely over, but he didn't. The top-heavy armored vehicle flopped over completely on its side and scraped to a halt.

The two cars following it squealed to a stop just short of slamming into their companion and each other. The turret immediately began swinging my way.

Here we go again. I dodged to the side and climbed up on the back of the vehicle, dragging the massive wrench along with me. The turret spun farther, trying to find me. I dodged to one side and hooked the end of the big metal tool around the machine gun's barrel, and then I pulled. Now, the barrel of a machine gun is considerably stiff and made of hardened steel. However, I had a 3-foot hunk of iron, and I was very strong. The water jacket popped, showering water all over the turret. My wrench jumped, caught again, and then bent the inner barrel 90 degrees with one smooth motion.

I hadn't been sure if the Italian-designed vehicles had been crewed by their makers or by Russian troops. The string of Russian profanity issuing from the turret answered that question. I must have really made the gunner mad because he popped the hatch and lunged up like a militaristic jack-in-the-box. He was quick, I'll give him that. His pistol came out lightning fast, and he nearly had me before I reacted. I grabbed his forearm just before the gun came level and yanked. The man popped out of the turret, bounced off the side of the armored car, and fell yelling into the street below. I wasn't sure this would slow down such a feisty one, so I drew my .45 and gave him a couple of rounds to kind of settle him down a bit.

I was about to put a few through the open hatch when the next car in line hosed us down with machine gun fire. Bullets ricocheted off the turret all around me as I crouched behind it. An armored car turret isn't very big, and I was barely able to stay under cover. Then the car under me lurched forward, and I was knocked completely off, sprawling in the street below. I dove and rolled as bullets showered the concrete road all around me. Then I was in front of the disabled tank and under cover.

Boom. I was down. The world exploded, pounding my insides with a brutal concussion and sending armored car parts raining in all directions, bouncing off the buildings around us and falling and rolling down the street. Only the body of the Russian tank shielded me from the blast.

A moment later, there was a rending crash of metal on metal. I ducked around the far side of the tank and got a view of what was going on. The armored car I had knocked on its side had been blasted open and now was a roaring inferno of bright orange and black smoke. Wysocki's tank had rammed into the next car in line. The armored car was too blocky and tall for the tank to roll over top of it, but its tire spokes were shattered. Now the front of the car was tilted down, and Wysocki's treads were starting to crawl up its hood. The armored car's machine gun opened fire on the tank at close range. I saw Wysocki's cannon pivot, and I threw myself back behind the Russian tank.

Boom.

When I staggered back out into the open, the armored car's turret had been split open as if it had been struck by the hammer of Thor.

I don't know what was worse: being on foot during a mech battle or smack dab in the middle of an armored vehicle fight. Either way, I seriously need to reconsider my life choices.