Cold sweat broke down Zan’s face.

Darting to the first lever — which was actually further away from him than his newly discovered lever, not which Zan, in his panic, realized — he pulled the lever and darted clear to the other lever. Out of necessity, Zan ignored the precariously close golems ascending to his location, their malice-filled intent clear.

Throwing his weight and pulling the second lever, Zan’s breath caught in nis throat as he waited for the levers to do their jobs and lower the gate. He swore: if there are another gods-damned lever, I am going to lose it and stick this sword through my stomach!

Relief spread over him as he saw the gate lower.

Relief turned to panic, though, when he saw the imperiled wagons roll his way. Would they make it in time? Zan wondered as he saw images of wagons torn apart while they crashed into heavy-wrought-iron gates.

In his reverie, Zan hadn’t realized the enemy forces had positioned themselves within striking range. Dodging suddenly and far too close for comfort, Zan brought his shield up as he waited for either disaster or victory.

Sidestepping the enemy while lashing out with his sword, the time for battle was over. They freed the prisoners, doing so, however, the enemy mobilized, therefore, the chase begun.

Everything happened so fast — the lowering gate, the rush of the wagons, the desperation hanging in the air.

Whipping the horses’ reins, the driver of the first wagon, seeing the gate nearly lowered but not all the way, urged his horses to jump and clear the gate.

But the jump wasn’t enough — though the horses cleared the gate, the huge wagon did not and with a thunderous crash, the wagon careened to the edge of the gate, splitting into two parts, one part to each side of the gate’s fence.

Screams, shouting, pain. Were the audiovisual aroma which exploded outward in the crash’s wake.

Zan did not know what to do: he saw behind the many more wagons careening their way forward. Seeing some people hobbled in the middle of the road, enemies abounding, Zan shouted — screamed at the top of his lungs — for them to ‘get out of the road!’ Rushing to save a child from a rampaging death, Zan tossed a couple of civilians out of the way. More roughly than he would have liked, but now was not the time for time-consuming softness.

Before he could process anything, the next wagon was upon them, and — blessed be to the gods — the wagon cleared the gate, which was, by now, fully lowered to the ground.

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Joy sprung into Zan’s heart. They had done it! The gates were open; the would-be slaves liberated.

It was…

Zan wanted to say, ‘over.’ It was over.

But it wasn’t over.

Far from it.

“Jiehong! Where are you?!” Zan said into his comm-piece.

The response was not immediate, but he said, “Defending the rear… there’s so many of them, buddy, I could use your help. Wait!… check on Whiskey! She was leading the front.”

“That first wagon?!” Zan asked, already moving to the site of the crash, a hard move to do when scattered golems gradually converged on his position, requiring his blade to protect the civilians. To Jiehong, he continued, and said, “Did you see or hear the crash? I’m trying to — crap! I’m looking for Whiskey now.”

Jiehong grunted affirmatively about the crash, but only scattered words. Stress and doing ‘too much’ with ‘too little’ infected everyone with an eagle-eyed focus precluding lingual specificity.

Seeing another cart clear home, Zan rushed across the street, taking care not to put himself into danger by getting run over.

He found Whiskey buried under some rubble. Clearing the splinters, Zan shook her awake. Zan saw her dazed but otherwise unharmed.

“Jie! I’ve found her and she’s fine! Use your smoke grenades!” Zan spoke into his comm-device.

To Whiskey, he said, “You need to get up! We still have people to save, Whiskey!”

Recovering with a quickness which surprised Zan, Whiskey said, standing on wobbly feet, “You’re right. Gather the people… find me a horse and I will lead the stragglers to safety.”

Zan did just that. Using his remaining grenades to clear out the foes who dared harass them yet, Zan used the last of his muscular resolve to gather the scattered prisoners of the first wagon wreck. “Everyone, stay on me!” Zan yelled as gathered the civilians.

Although he tried his best to find a horse, none were around. They must’ve run off, Zan thought. Skittish creatures!

Pressing his finger to his ear, Zan told Jiehong via his comm-device, “We’re dead in the water, Jie! Whiskey needs a horse, and I need a wagon to load these people on!”

Zan did not wait around for his buddy’s answer. He had to be proactive.

With the smoke from the grenades having cleared and revealed how more of the enemy host were upon them, Zan did the only thing he could do — he tossed a couple more smoke grenades to either side of the road leading out of the camp. Zan threw the grenades with just enough of an arc to ensure they didn’t obscure the driver’s vision. Now, he had to hope against hope the smoke slowed down the automotrons enough to save their hides.

“I don’t see any horses, bub! Sorry, but I have my hands full rushing in and out of the enemy’s flanks!” Jiehong replied.

Knowing he would have to do something drastic, Zan shot himself into the middle of the road, and wildly waved his hands in the air.

He screamed, “STOOOP!”

Seeing him, the driver pulled up hard with his reins, bringing the speeding wagon to a rough halt.

“What’s your problem!?” the driver screamed.

Zan didn’t answer and waved for the civilians to load into the wagon.

Surprised, the driver attempted an objection, saying, “We’re already full up and—”

But Zan didn’t listen. He said to the civilians, “Cram in tightly! I know it’s uncomfortable, but every inch counts!”

To the oncoming wagon, Zan shouted, “Around! Go around!” Over again.

The wagon got the memo and diverted his path slightly. Hard to do with creatures as willful as these horses, but a skill well earned.

Rolling out from one wagon as it sped by was a familiar face.

Zan turned to see who it was. He saw none other than Colonel Winters.