Saturday, 25 October 2031. 0743/7:43am CST. The remnants of Rural Central Texas.
Instinct is a strange and quirky thing. Marcus would say a funny thing, but his instincts at perceiving a live grenade sailing towards his face were anything but funny.
"Holyfuckinghe-" Marcus was hardly aware of what he was saying as his left hand swung up and batted the grenade away from him as his right held his carbine close to his body and his legs pushed him backwards behind the rock corner he had just cleared. Landing hard on his ass, he scrabbled across the ground to push himself against the stone wall. Shouts and angry voices came from the out-of-sight bunker, and he realized that the voices had been shouting the entire time. Metal groaned, and a bare second after taking cover Marcus was rocked by the grenades blast wave.
As dust and pebbles finished falling around him, Marcus picked himself up and pressed up against the corner.
"FRIENDLY COMING OUT!" He shouted, restraining his anger until he found out more of what happened.
"CLEAR!" Marta's soprano rang out. Marta? Where are the boys? They are supposed to man the door while Marta handles the clients...
Ducking his head out briefly before fully stepping out, Marcus walked the next thirty feet downslope to the bunker's door, his heart sinking with every step.
The door... fuck... the door...
The grenade had, it seemed, bounced down and into the bunker's door hinge as the staff had been trying to close it to keep the grenade from killing anyone inside. The door, with a grenade trapped in the hinge, was not able to fully close, and no one had the time to figure out why.
And then it had exploded. In a confined space.
Marcus could see where part of the blast had pushed through the hinge into the bunker, so there was probably someone injured. But the worst part was that the frame and the door itself was now irrevocably warped. There was no way all the hells the bunker could be sealed.
And the Antithesis would be here any minute now.
Fuck.
The door groaned open as Marta threw her weight against the door and it's now bent hinge pins, and Marcus could see Pablo and Tibbs just pulling a larger man up off the ground and frog marching him deeper into the bunker with some handcuffs securing the man's large wrists behind him.
"Bossman, pendejo there screamed that you were one of the plant beasts and threw a grenade before we even knew he had one." Marta brushed her shoulder length black hair out of her face, the hair tie she always wore having come loose at some point. "Gonna cuff him to a bunk for now. I locked up the grenade case again. Sorry, boss. We just didn't think someone would be that stoopid." Marta's accent came out heavy on the last word as she looked at the ground in shame.
Marcus counted to five while taking some deep breaths and assessing what he could see before responding.
"Not your fault, Marta. Tibbs should have secured it after checking everything. And nothing to be done now. Just... head in, lets barricade the door as best we can. Get the boys. Looks like we are gonna have to Thermopylae this."
"Si, boss." Marta turned then stopped and looked back at him. "Eh, boss? Didn't everyone at Thermopylae die?"
"Yes, Marta. Yes they did..."
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After briefing the crew on the steps he had taken to bring in reinforcements Marcus had them take heavy storage crates and make a barricade in front of the door opening after getting it to swing close as far as they could, leaving a gap of about two feet across. While the crew worked on that Marcus was laying out some Claymores in the Killbox with manual triggers run with a wire through the open hinge area to a switch that would be controlled by one of the crew or a volunteer client. After setting up about three of those Marcus hustled back in and helped setup a second crate barricade with line of sight through the doorway but about ten feet back and almost against the concrete wall before another, lighter, bunker door lead to the sleeping and dining area. That door was not anywhere close to rated against a siege from the Antithesis, but it was never meant to be. Now Marcus just hoped the defense in depth would last long enough for Jim and Rook's Guardians to show up and save some of them.
"Okay gang. You all are going to be back here. If I call for a grenade, you throw it OVER my head. You do not fire unless I say so, or until they get past me." Marcus looked at the three "kids" in front of him. "I will be at the door. If I call for a claymore to be triggered, I need it triggered with no questions asked. Do not come to help me. Do not come to save me. Stay. Here."
The three exchanged somber looks. "Boss," Marta looked like she was on the edge of tears, knowing the answer but wanting to hear otherwise. "Don't you mean if they get past you?"
Marcus stood there silently, unsure how best to respond.
He was a combat veteran. He knew the score here. It was a near miracle he was alive as it was, given the number of incursions he had already fought in. But these kids, they never signed up for this. He had done his best to train them in the event this very thing happened, but shooting cans and combat were a far cry from each other. And now he was asking them to stand in the gap for some useless rich snobs who wanted to ride horses whose farts smelled like lilacs.
What a joke.
What the hell, that's the job, isn't it? To fight so others don't have to.
"Make sure you wear your masks. The gas from the fours can precede it, and I don't want to be shot in the back." Marcus smiled grimly as he dodged Marta's question with his gallows humor. "If you haven't taken your pill for the Seven's, do it now. Pablo, make sure everyone inside has taken theirs, then get back here." Pablo nodded before the small little eighteen year old scrambled through the smaller door.
"Right then. Marta, you've got the demo-board. Places, everyone." Marcus pulled his half-mask down over his nose and mouth to begin filtering the air. He'd seen the effects the paranoia gas a Model Four could have, had seen squads start blowing each other away. No way that would be him.
Pulling up a folding chair, he set his firing position on the crates at the bunker entry. His PTR-91 KPF .308 Carbine was leaning to the side with a bag of reloads next to it. Resting atop the crate with the barrel across a small sandbag was a old Remington semi automatic shotgun loaded with 12 gauge slugs. Marcus expected Model Threes to show up first, and they needed a solid punch to be put down. The .308 could it, for sure, but Marcus preferred to KNOW that his target was going to go down. Though he was worried about if something bigger showed up, like a Four or a Six. Maybe I should save the shotgun for later?
Placing a box of deer slugs next to his firing position Marcus decided to stick with what he had and keep his PTR for a quick-swap if he did not have time to reload.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
And now... we wait.
The silence grew as Marcus kept the shotgun up against his shoulder, cheek "welded" to the stock, but otherwise loose and relaxed, letting his senses expand out in a zen-like state. He heard the scuffling sound of the teens behind him as they idly shifted in their own folding chairs, the passing of time and the pressure of the oncoming attack mounting on their psyches.
Marcus idly flipped through a few apps on his augs in one corner of his vision as he listened for anything moving outside, looking for messages or updates from Jim or word from the Civil Services. So far no word but Marcus did notice one thing that triggered an old memory.
"Huh. Today is October the 25th."
Behind Marcus the teens looked at each other to see if any of them had any idea why that mattered. "Uh, what's that boss?" Pablo ventured.
Marcus flipped through a couple more screens just to check, but sure enough...
"Today is the 25th of October, which in Catholic tradition means today is Saint Crispin's Day." Marcus chuckled.
"Is he the patron saint of last stands or something?" Tibbs offered with a sharp laugh. "Cause if so, I would really like to get to know the guy."
"No, actually." Marcus cleared the screens from his augs. "Cobblers and leather workers I think. Shoemakers and stuff. But Crispin and Crispinian, twins, were martyrs. So they were sainted and given a Saint's day. But that isn't what struck me as funny."
"You think we are gonna be sainted or something, jefe?" Marta snarked, a leg bouncing with anxiety.
"Nah. But there is a speech from the play Henry the Fifth. By Shakespeare." Marcus rolled his neck to loosen up and took a deep breath before resetting his stance.
"The king's cousin is lamenting that they lack more men just before the Battle of Agincourt. They were vastly outnumbered.
"No, my fair cousin; if we are mark'd to die, we are enow to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor! God's Will! I pray thee, wish not one man more." Marcus's voice had taken on more life than the three teens had ever heard before. They had known him as a kind, if stern, older widower (for they saw someone in his late thirties as older) who cared for them in his own way and made sure they had a place if their home lives were in risk, but he was always closed off himself and often seemed a bit sad. Now it was as though a fire had been lit within him.
"By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; it yearns me not if men my garments wear; such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive! No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor as one man more methinks would share from me for the best hope I have! O, do not wish one more! "
The teens were each subtly using their augs to try and look up some of the older and more esoteric words as Marcus grew more and more intense in his recitation.
"Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, that he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart! His passport shall be made, and crowns for his convoy put into his purse; we would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us."
Marcus turned slightly in his seat to look at the teens while still keeping a side eye out the door.
"This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, and rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors and say 'tomorrow is Saint Crispian.' Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars, and say 'these wounds I had on Crispin's day.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, but he'll remember with advantages, what feats he did that day. Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his son; and Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered..."
Tears were falling from Marcus eyes as he was seeing the faces of his old comrades in his minds eye, his voice now lowering.
"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition; and gentlemen in England now a-bed shall themselves accurs'd they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."
Marcus wiped his face clear and went back to facing out the door. A weighty silence stretched out amongst them.
"Anyway. I just... thought it was interesting that today was Saint Crispin's day."
The three teenagers looked amongst themselves as they processed everything they had heard.
"Uh, Bossman..." Tibbs coughed into a fist. "You're a bit a weirdo, no offense. Kinda like it, but, man, like... You got some weird fancy shit bouncing around up in that brain of yours."
Marcus snorted. "Uh, Thanks?"
"De nada."
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The most stressful part of combat, Marcus felt, was not the actual combat but the waiting that preceded it after you had made all of your preparations. Often referred to as "hurry up and wait," Marcus now had nowhere to put his building anxiety as he sat, quietly, patiently, waiting for the certain arrival of the Antithesis and yet still nothing making itself known.
Above the bunker door was sheer rock face about thirty feet high, and he was fairly sure a model four was unable to scale it. That was actually part of the reasoning for the design, he wanted to channel everything into a killbox and then turn that into a plant shredder. But then Maria had fallen ill, and most of the money he was going to invest in auto turrets and other defense systems outside the bunker door went to her medical care. And then her End of Life care. After that, he had just... lost the motivation to finish things.
He regretted that now. And Maria would have scolded him for it too, she would have hated to see him stuck in a rut of depression. But then, that is what happens when you lose the love of your life.
Marcus blinked harshly a few times to try and reset his thought processes. He again verified that his shotgun had a shell chambered and the safety was off.
This waiting sucks.
As if in answer to his thoughts, a bestial shadow grew from beyond the far corner of the killbox ramp. Marcus gripped the shotgun tighter to his shoulder and put his cheek to the "weld" to sight down the barrel.
Marcus: Looks like we have incoming. Be ready.
Mr. Tibbs: Si, Senor.
SaintMarta: Tell me when to blow them up.
CholoCrusader: fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
More shadows seemed to join the first until finally the snout of a Model Three slowly came around the corner. It crept forward until it's eye was past the edge of the rock and then paused. What small amount of intelligence it possessed began to process that there was A) a door, B) it was open, and C) that meant probable biomass inside. It should investigate. The last few steps were conceptual, and thus harder for the three to handle, Marcus almost imagined he could see the smoke of the poor little brain's gears burning as it took all this in. Regardless, it was clear when it finished processing this and the pack as a whole moved forward with speed. As they turned and rushed down the ramp into his killbox, Marcus hollered "Blow one!"
WHUMP!
The first claymore was at the turn, aimed primarily up the part of the ramp Marcus could not see. With a blast angle of sixty degrees, it still had some coverage into the main of the killbox itself. In the space of milliseconds, a small amount of C4 was converted into explosive energetic force, the strong back and weakened front of the mine causing the lazy force, which will always take the path of least resistance, to head towards the charging Antithesis. As the force of the blast blow through the front of the mine it caught hold of a mass of weak resin which nearly instantly broke apart, freeing the seven hundred eighth-inch steel balls and transferring enough force into those to send them up to fifty meters (or one-hundred and sixty-four feet) at speeds almost four times the speed of sound.
That is to say, the Antithesis on the upper ramp beyond the corner, and the back portion of the leading element, got completely fucked up.
The front portion of the leading element just got angry. And there were about six of them.
BOOM!
Marcus was quick to sight on which ever snout was closest to him as he pulled the trigger and began to pump a new shell in.
Clickity-BOOM!
A second critter went down and geeze weren't they getting close!
Clickity-BOOM!
Something about math was bothering Marcus...
Clickity-BOOM!
How many shells was in this weapon's magazine?
Clickity-BOOM!
One left, no problem one left. God, my head... feels like it's burning...
Clickity-click.
Click.
Click.
It's a 4 and 1. Four in mag and one in chamber. Marcus was out of ammo, and the model three was just about to leap on him.
Fuck.