Open Oh Wretched Earth

The cannon's recoil shook the sand between the bags lining their earthworks. Again and again, the artillery batteries roared, pumping shell after shell filled with an arcane mixture of magnesium and sulfur into the once lush green Canadian hinterland. Rodney thought nothing could suffer the power they unleashed upon that forest.

He would have covered his ears if his eardrums had not already blown. This final assault already proved brutal. After surviving the march across France, Rodney thought he would never experience fiercer fighting.

That was until they emerged.

As the ticker tape fell in Times Square, their assault began.

Whistles blew over the roll of the artillery. Sergeant Buck signaled, and their gun fell silent. Only the sound of the fires massacring the forest raged. Rodney shivered. They hunkered below the rim of their redoubt. He imagined their advance into the valley below–three American Regiments and another two Canadian, supported by a mixed armored battalion. Veterans all. The very best of the best that had survived Africa, survived Europe, only to be fighting for their lives on the home front against an enemy not even Patton could have anticipated.

From every forest on earth, their enemy unleashed a fury the Axis could only have dreamed of. Rodney was not the only one who initially thought them a Wehrmacht wonder weapon. Then they worried the atomic bombs had ushed them forth. “Children of the Atomic Age,” the headlines proclaimed, but Rodney had a feeling it was the pencil pushers who were the children. Those before them now were more ancient than the pyramids–he was certain of it.

An explosion broke the silence. Then another. Then another. Screams filled the air. Rodney undid the clasp of his hip holster with trembling hands.

“Now! Give ‘em hell!” Sergeant Buck bellowed. The crew sprang into action.

They fired indiscriminately until Rodney was certain the cannon’s barrel would melt. Beyond, the earth shattered under their unrelenting assault.

“Last crate!” Rodney yelled. Sergeant Buck nodded. Rodney watched as their sergeant peered over the edge of their sandbags. In France, they had a different runner, a Cree named Red. When they came, when the first blurry photos appeared on the cover of the Times, Red’s eyes went wide. He said his ancestors spoke of these beasts and the terror they wrought when man shook the spirits of the earth. He was absent at breakfast the next day, and Rodney never saw him again.

The ground around them shook. Rodney saw the shadows of the retreating infantry sprint and fall around them. More explosions rocked the valley below.

“Sergeant, what are your orders?” Rodney yelled and rolled the sergeant over. Rodney’s voice caught in his throat. He had lost a lot of friends and a lot of them up close, but the sight of the blank, dead eyes never got easier. Blood ran down the sergeant’s face from the arrow just below the brim of his helmet.

It lept down from the field above their redoubt’s pit, landing silently as if the soil were sand. Rodney drew his pistol, knowing full well it was too late. Twin blades flashed between the ruffles of an earth-colored cloak. His friends’ blood welled from the deft knife wounds as they joined Sergeant Bull in their final resting place so far, far from home.

Rodney raised his sidearm.

Those few who survived the first encounters said the elves were beautiful. The creature before Rodney now may have been beautiful once, with its angled features and flowing earth-colored hair, but its rage whittled away any vestige of beauty. Its skin had turned red and marbled, a reflection of the broken earth on the field beyond. Blood ran ruby down the delicate blades of its twin knives. Rodney thought he saw it all across the pond, all the best and worst of this new modern world. He was wrong, and Red was right in the end. If this was what all the bombs and guns ushered forth, he wanted no part of it. He should have walked away when Red did.

It was only going to get worse. What humanity now unleashed, no simple pistol could stop.

He lowered his gun.

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A/N:

Had this idea for the Living Woods challenge, but couldn't quite get it to work. If you've enjoyed this, please leave a like and an insight below. If you really enjoyed this, tips to fuel my coffee addiction are always appreciated. All formatting is designed for desktops. All my works can be found below: