Chapter One; A smell of Ozone.

 

      The cold damp drilled into Sergeant Roquet Alexsndr's bones.  He shivered, he was always shivering these days, and tried to draw himself further into his overcoat, a useless enterprise lying prone in pre-dawn dew.  He hardly noticed the pain from his ankles, the ache of his feet, or the grumble of a stomach unfed for two days, no, these discomforts hid behind the refrigerated mists of late fall in Mantissippii.  

     He lifted his head, peering left and right to check that Wylum and Ahris were properly camouflaged and alert.   They were.  Then carefully, using his rifle, he slowly parted the bloody maroon leaves of the brush before his face to look down on to the road.  In the gloom of that misty morning it was more like a creek of blue gray mud than a place to associate with walking or driving, and the close thick bush of fireweed, brambleberry, goat roses, and reedy birch dripping with dew gave the place a sinister aspect, not improved by the reek of wet sweat-stewed wool and old canvas from his gear.  Nothing moved on that grim trail so far as he could see, which was good.

     The Sergeant was the sharp end of the spear for the Second Polyester Freestate's effort to help it's semi-autonomous Mantissippi province push back the incursion of  Ethnic Slobbians from beyond the border. Sadly, it was a very small and reedy spear. A century of world peace since the Silver Wars, and a cheery, quiet prosperity had left the Freestate with only a single infantry regiment, Roquet’s unit, the Anneglug Chasseurs. And to support it; the Brubberband Artillery, though much of that regiment wasn’t in this theater, being occupied with coastal defense on both shores of the nation. In fact, the Artillery only had one battery here; and the Chasseurs only had one battalion on the ground, it’s other was still training and equipping in the snug barracks of Ft. Grubbit, outside Anneglug. So there were barely 50 men to hold off all the Slobbians and protect the rich farms of the Mantissippian planters. A very thin pink and brown wall between the Mammoth herding barbarians and the city of Poxneedle a few hours in the rear.  But it was a Polyestrine wall, and that counted for something.

     The Sergeant startled, he heard the leathery scuff of boots kicking the sloppy leaf litter somewhere behind him. He rolled over a little, wincing at the chill, and snorted in relief, it was Garlomin, back from a detail, he was struggling with a steaming can that smelled heavenly of chocolotl. Stomachs rumbled in anticipation to the left and right, easily audible over the dripping leaves. A whispered “well done!” and “Scholar and Gentleman” broke out of the tired squad. They rattled and jangled and brought down a cascade of drippy leaves trying to free their tin cups for a sweet hot drink. Garlomin knelt low, portioning out the thin hot stuff into metal cups, cursing quietly and sucking on burned fingers. Soon the squad was silent again, bellies to the ground and senses keen for movement along the road.  

     It came around noon, the smell was first, strongly fecal with notes of fire smoke and wet dog. Then the breaking and crunching of vegetation, along with hushed barks from a mahout. The gray watery sun did not improve the look of the road track below, but the muddy stuff was no impediment to the creature that slowly hove into view around the bend. It was frighteningly enormous, with a grayish yellow woolly coat decorated with sticks and leaves, mud and massive tufts of shed undercoat. On it’s back, a wooden platform walled with sandbags and from which four dimly seen figures projected the business end of long rifles. The figures were very short, colorful, with red fez hats, Slobbian hats. 

      The Mammoth’s tusks swept the road before it, the tough trunk picking at spots and  occasionally lifting some morsel or other to it’s mouth. Words came unbidden to the sergeant's mind; Awe, Majesty, Fear. It took him an effort to pull his vision back and concentrate on signaling his section with silent gestures. They would let the front of the column go by, open fire on the last animal, and with some luck, the sergeants flare would be seen by the Artillery, which would then drop a freight train of destruction on the road, while his team pulled back out of the kill zone. Simple as plans go.

     The first animal passed them, dropping a great pile of dung in the road on it’s passing. “That’s Consideration right there, you Slobbian bastard.” thought Roquet. Then the next animal appeared, this one, smaller, fewer tree branches entangled in it’s heavy coat, and from it’s howdah platform of split logs and sandbags rose a small brass bedpost in office of a flagpole with a banner; a bedsheet of blue stripes with a cross fitchee painted rudely in some reddish blackish stuff that Roquet sure hoped was paint, or food...but knew probably wasn’t.

      Finally, the last animal appeared. It was by far the largest. An Enormous monster, shaggy and matted, it’s trunk bare in places, burned on it’s legs, scarred all over, one ear seemed as if it had been torn off long ago. It’s howdah was not wood, or rather was, but was fitted with plates of iron, probably pulled from a steam engine, and nestled in it’s sandbags was the deadly muzzle of a machine gun. Three Slobbians rode this land kraken, whose shuffling steps came to a quick stop right in front of the fire team.

      It paused, unsure, as if it could sense the ambush about to close in on it. It swayed a bit, passing it’s weight from one foot to the other, it’s mahout leaned over to the good ear a moment, patted it lovingly, then turned around to speak to the men in the low walled bunker behind him. Roquet knew things were starting to go wrong, so he did the only thing he could, he fired his flare.

      To the right and left the popping of rifles were simultaneous with the clacking clatter of the Machine gun from the four legged bunker before them. Then the monster turned with amazing speed, it’s armored trunk reached Ahris first, and broke him instantly. Roquet put a bullet into the mahout, who screamed out and fell into the muddy road, probably still alive, but the sergeant had no time to be sure, he was already signaling a withdrawal, and trying to back out of range of the titanic, angry wall of hair before him. The Machine gun’s barking was dropping limbs and leaves everywhere,

     In the chaos of bullets, spraying mud, falling bark, whipping limbs, the trunks of birch were splintering before massive pillar legs, and Wylum died; split by bullets and splintered tree-trunk. Garlomin fared no better, his last act was to fling the empty Chocolotl tin at the beast, the three grenades inside it going off under it’s belly just as the first big whumping shell of the great guns behind them made a muddy volcano on the road below. 

      Then something strange happened to Roquet, a sensation of distance, of dizzy darkness clamping down on him, a bewildering sensation of being locked inside his own body as a great curtain of unconsciousness came down over the stage of his mind.