Scorched Earth

Diesel turned over, turning his shoulder to the window beside the bed. His bunk moaned. The wind brushed across his back, teasing at the spiderweb of scarring and warpaint. There was smoke on the wind, the smell of blood and charcoal; the smell of desolation. The scent of failure wandered through the room, but it may have only been Diesel’s imagination. 

He dropped silently from the bunk and went to the door. His hand hovered over the latch for a moment before he opened the door and went out into the yard. The clouds were thick that night, but the clouds were always thick; there were spotlights searching the sky, always searching. An ack-ack gun spun silently round and round. Diesel pulled on his jacket and glanced up at the walls, and pacing sentries. 

All at once, the sky exploded. Fire lit up the clouds; exhaust vents screamed open on the sides of a dozen fighters. They dove for the base, with their guns yowling and snarling. Tracer rounds pelted down, tearing through the wall sentries and spinning from the ground and back up into the lead-filled sky. Flak was bursting half-way between the clouds and the ground, dark against the bleached clouds. The guns scattered across the walls and rooftops opened up. There was a thunderous racket from the garage; a tank rolled out from the gate and began to fire upwards. 

Diesel ran for cover. One of the fighters had its wing torn off, it spiraled down and landed in a molten heap beside the main gate. Another just blew apart in mid air. Soot and bits of falling metal pattered against Diesel’s shoulders and neck. He couldn’t see, smoke and the smell of fire was filling the yard. A chunk of something burning arced out of the sky and crashed into the asphalt beside him. Boots pounded on the pavement, Diesel was hauled upwards by a pair of hands on his shoulders. 

The engine made the heavy plating tremble. The tank began to move forward. A man was sitting on the edge of the turret and grinning. Diesel couldn’t see much of his the man, other than his smile and his silhouette, but it was obvious that he was an officer. 

“Never gets old.” The officer said. Then the bullets went through him and he tumbled over the side. 

Blood hit Diesel’s face, he wiped it away, and pulled himself a little higher on the tank. The turret groaned and swung alarmingly to the side, and Diesel had to drop from the tank to avoid being knocked clear. He landed hard against the shattered pavement, and stumbled slightly. An engine roared overhead; the tank’s gun fired and Diesel’s head split open; something splintered overhead and came raining down over the yard. Bits of burning plane pinged of the tank’s armor or went skittering away into the dense smoke. The cockpit crashed down somewhere near Diesel. He threw himself back a second before it exploded with a shivering crash. 

Men were running across the yard after the tank. Assault rifles were clattering against body armor; boots were beating down; ack-ack was all around, and tracers from the fighters were whirling across the walltops, tearing apart the concrete bastions and emplacements, sending chips of broken stone and clouds of bleached dust into the air. 

The fighters had pulled away from the base, but were veering round again. When they came back down, their afterburners were screaming and fire was running from their engines. The thudding of rotor blades carried over the din, laser sights traced the smoke overhead; a volley of rockets hit the north tower. It split like a rotted fruit, it came apart at the seams and fell in a heap over the supply depot below. The helicopters and fighters bellowed over the base and the fire came. 

Everything was coming down or being torn apart. In the smoke and darkness, Diesel could only see jets of fire and brief star-burst flares of rockets detonating. The tank plowed forward and through the front gate. The prow went through the stone pillars at the sides of the gate; the exhaust pipes spit oil across the ground. The soldiers following walked through behind it. Someone was yelling, “Run! Run!” 

Diesel hit the ground. Something hissed and slammed into the tank. The ammo packs mounted to the sides detonated and knocked a group of men from their feet. One was ripped apart by the blast; the others didn’t get up again. Then the fuel tank blew open and a wall of fire rolled across the yard. The smell of burned petroleum and charred flesh. The air rushed, Diesel felt it tug him backwards and towards the blaze. 

The tank was wreathed in fire, smoke was billowing up from underneath the turret. Ammunition went off in the hull, snapping like a string of firecrackers. Metal boiled and spat itself up onto the melted asphalt. It was a volcano; flames were leaping into the sky, whirling and hissing. 

A fighter swept across the base. Its guns shouted; its guns whined and flung bullets across the only place not filled by smoke and phosphorus. There was screaming, someone had been hit. A gun fired, rattling. Something exploded. 

Diesel found himself running for cover, his heart was pounding; beating double its usual rate. His breath was coming ragged, but it wasn’t the distance, it was the air. There was smoke filling the base, and dust filling the smoke; the smell of fire and of lit fuel and melted tar was trapped in Diesel’s lungs; the sound of gunfire was raining in his ears. His foot slammed into the corner of the wall and he fell on his hands in a pile of broken stone and twisted rebar. 

Before he could struggle to his feet, Diesel was pinned against the mound of rubble by a large, heavy mass that tumbled down from the tower above. It might have been a body; it might have only been a sandbag or a sack of bullets. Whatever it was, Diesel shoved it away; he stood and he began running again. He thought he felt skin against his wrist, he smelled dead flesh, but that might have just been the air. 

He was running, then he wasn’t running. There was a flash, a tremendous crack, and a splintering, a snapping sound; it was  all in his head, but so was the pain. A sniper’s bullet had gone through his leg and he’d felt the bone explode into a thousand tiny fragments. Diesel fell and hit his head against the ground. 

He could see shapes running back and forth through blurred eyes. He could hear the shouting and gunfire clear enough, but that was all. The sound of the fighters; the rotor blade of the helicopters; the bark of flak cannons, it had all died away, until there was only the noise of soldiers running across the yard. And shooting, there was shooting again, several soldiers fell openmouthed in the broken gates. Diesel’s sight grew clearer; he could see dark shapes moving through the smoke, carrying rifles; firing rifles into the troops huddling behind meager cover. Bodies thudded on the ground. Walls crashed down, another wave of helicopters had hit the base. Rotary guns were ripping through men. The smell of blood was sharper than ever. 

Diesel struggled into the safety of the stairwell at the base of the ruined north tower. Bombs were coming down on the barracks; big fat ones, filled with hellfire. 

The base burned long into the night, until enemy troops were flooding through the gate and securing the survivors; until the smoke had cleared enough for them to land helicopters. Flashlight beams combed the walls. The stink of burning flesh made Diesel sick. Corpse were being piled up and burned outside the wall. The clouds had turned red, but it was nowhere near sunrise. 

Something screamed, it didn’t sound human; it wasn’t; a figure all fire and ash leapt out from a gap in the wall, set afire by a flamethrower. The figure stopped screaming, it crumpled to the ground, charred and black. The soldier with the flamethrower stepped back and raised his visor. Diesel thought he saw him smile, but it must have been the light. Then the soldier with the flamethrower turned and began to walk towards the north tower, and Diesel saw that he was grinning. Grinning and walking with brutal purpose towards the place where Diesel was tucked into the rubble.

Diesel tried to scramble up the wall of broken concrete and climb out onto the wall, but his leg held him down. He struggled upwards with bleeding fingernails and a pounding heart. His pulse raced; boots were thundering against blacktop,  soldiers were yelling. Diesel might have heard the click of a magazine being loaded into a gun. He hauled himself up onto the wall. A hand grabbed his shoulder and tore him upwards, a knife flashed in the space beside his face. Diesel kicked outwards; someone fired; something fell from the top of the wall. 

Diesel began to run, dragging his leg behind him. Another bullet slammed into the leg. Then another. Diesel fell across the parapet. His heart was echoing in his head. His head ached and his eyes closed. Footsteps. Something drew close to his face, Diesel hit out at it and met skin. He gave one final effort, and tumbled from the wall.

The air rushed. 

Silence fell.