The Fields of Fire

Chapter 7: Michael Branton

"HOLY SHIT!" Michael threw himself to the ground, quickly realizing that he didn't want to die nearly as bad as he thought he did. The sound of machine gun fire started from the bottom of the wall as he scrambled to grab the rifle he left lying against one of the steel ramparts. The top of the wall had a few sections protected by small steel barriers, allowing a soldier to crouch into cover and pop out to fire back at possible attackers. But Michael had no plans of risking his neck to fire back. Besides, a quick check of the firing mechanism showed that the bolt had been frozen shut.

Michael's boots shook. He lied with his back to the metal barrier. 3 Inches of steel stood between him and oblivion. His mind was racing, trying to contemplate what was going on. He wasn't a real soldier, he knew that. He flew planes, miles above his enemy, and dropped bombs onto people he'd never see or know. He couldn't fight, so in that moment he did all he could do, he pulled himself into a ball against the stone cold steel parapet of the wall and just waited for it to all be over.

He couldn't do anything but wince and gasp as bullets ricocheted around him. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Everyone knew the Tribesmen were like cave men. They had stone age weapons, bows and spears, not guns. Guns, guns meant a real fight. Guns meant they could shoot back. Guns meant he'd have to shoot back.

What were the Tribesmen even doing attacking this place? The wall was hundreds of miles long, yet they chose to attack the one part of it that was the most fortified. Unless... A terrifying realization hit Michael, They want through the gate. Fort F was one of the few places with a gate to the other side of the wall, if the Tribesmen were to break through it then they'd be able to get a whole army through and before they faced an army large enough to stop them. They'd march for hundreds of miles doing God knows what to the Zytrians before they were stopped. But the gate is built out of two-foot thick steel and it can only be opened from the southern side. You wouldn't be able to break through it without explosives, he thought, except... If they have guns... who's to say they don't have explosives?

Michael peered reluctantly out onto the snow, his head barely above the steel barrier that protected him from most certain death. He saw easily a thousand men in fur clothes rushing towards the wall. Some of them were dragging sleds, sleds filled with what appeared to be satchel charges. Michael couldn't get a better view before the sound machine guns once again rang out beyond the snow.

A horrible sense of dread filled Michael as he ducked back behind the steel barrier that separated him from the machinegun fire. Somebody had to stop them, they couldn't be allowed to get through the gate. If they did make it through than thousands would die. Michael Crawled towards the south side of the Wall, he peeked his head over. Beneath him was Fort-F, a rusted out steel castle. He could see people as small as ants walking around beneath him. It was a tall wall, easily several hundred feet, but only in that moment of desperation did Michael realize just how far up he was. He screamed as loud as he could, "HELP!" the roar his voice was lost in the howling of the wind, "THERE'S AN ATTACK!" He screamed again. Nothing. His vocal cords strained as he yelled, "PLEASE! THERE'S AN ATTACK!" The ants beneath his feet didn't even seem to notice he was there. He cursed commander Walton for not putting more men on the guard.

How was he supposed to signal these people from hundreds of feet up? How could he warn them of what was coming? His eyes turned across the blackened steel wall. The deafening howl of the winter wind and the terrible chorus of bullets whizzing above his head couldn't overpower the sound of his heart thumping itself to pieces inside his chest. His eyes came to a small tower, rising slightly above the wall. Atop the tower was a large pile of wood and oil. The Signal fire.

Michael knew he couldn't. Even if he managed to make it, there's no way he could climb the tower to light the fire without being shot. It was a journey of certain death. better that he stays up here and survives, than to die with everybody else. He rationalized his own cowardice, what did he care if other people died? Who cares if the men at Fort-F get slaughtered? Who cares if the Tribesmen march south, and rape and pillage as they go? Who cares about the thousands of men who will die trying to stop them? Michael shook his head. The one person he actually cared about was dead, so the rest could die with her. He tried, he did. He tried so so hard to save one person, not even the whole world, just to have one person. And he failed, he'd fail all these people too and he knew it. The only rational thing to do would be to hide, to try and save himself.