The battle began not with a trumpet's call, but with the dry, rasping creak of a bowstring being drawn taut. Michael, caught in the act of wiping a stray bead of drool from his chin—a purely physiological reaction to the distant, leopard-print-clad vision of Jaunysmoke—jerked his attention back to the unfolding tableau below. The assault, it seemed, was commencing.
On the ramshackle walls of Cinder Town, the defenders were led by a figure who could only be Mayor Andrew. He was a lion of a man, with a magnificent, fiery mane of a beard that spilled over the collar of his scavenged leather jerkin. Shouldered with casual authority was an M16 rifle, its metal worn but meticulously maintained. He paced behind his men, a low, continuous growl of encouragement and threat rumbling from his chest, his presence alone a bulwark against the advancing tide. Yet, his forces were thin, perhaps two dozen souls strung out along the perimeter, a stark reminder of the butcher's bill Zach had presented them with weeks prior.
Arrayed against them was Jaunysmoke's motley host, outnumbering the defenders by a good half. The townsfolk themselves were mere specters, peering from doorways and the flaps of tents, their faces etched with a weary resignation that suggested this drama of ownership was a familiar, cyclical play in which they had no speaking parts.
The town's sole entrance was barred by a derelict Greyhound bus, shoved into place to serve as a giant, immobile plug. Beyond it, the attackers advanced in a ragged skirmish line. Michael's telescope swept over them, and a thought, utterly incongruous given the circumstances, intruded: It's not scientifically possible.How, in a world of such evident deprivation, where most of her followers looked wiry and underfed, did Jaunysmoke maintain such a… prodigiousfigure? The mind boggled at what a diet of actual nutrients might achieve.
His idle musings were shattered as the advance reached a critical point. A hundred yards out, a sharp, carrying cry sliced through the dusty air. It was Jaunysmoke's voice, stripped of any tavern coquetry, now pure, galvanizing command. "Take the well! The water is ours!"
The effect was instantaneous. The front line, some thirty souls armed with an arsenal of makeshift blades and clubs, broke into a charge. Their speed was not that of trained soldiers, but of desperate animals, a flat-out sprint that ate up the distance with terrifying agility. Arrows, black fletching against the pale sky, began to fly from both sides almost simultaneously.
The ensuing exchange was a deadly ballet of evasion. Defenders and attackers alike moved with a preternatural swiftness, ducking, weaving, using battered sheets of metal and wood as shields. The air filled with the thwackof arrows finding homes in timber and flesh, and the sharp cries of the wounded. After three volleys, the casualties were surprisingly light—fewer than ten between both sides. These were survivors of a harsh world, their reflexes honed by constant peril.
Then, with a series of powerful leaps and grabs at the jumbled wall materials, the first attackers were up and over. The fight dissolved into a savage, close-quarters melee on the narrow walkway. Steel clashed, men grunted and screamed, and bodies tumbled into the dust below. The numerical advantage began to tell, pressing the defenders back.
It was then that Andrew made his move. He brought the M16 to his shoulder, his stance rock-steady. The reports were sharp, economical cracks, not the frantic bursts of a panicked man. The rifle barely seemed to kick against his formidable frame. One by one, five of Jaunysmoke's best archers, those who had been picking off defenders with grim efficiency, were plucked from the fight. They crumpled, dark stains blooming on their ragged clothes. Michael watched, awestruck and horrified. These wastelanders were tough—it often took multiple hits to bring one down—but Andrew's aim was unerring. He stopped firing only when the magazine was empty, slamming a new one home with a look of pure frustration.
Across the field, Jaunysmoke reacted. She swung the double-barreled shotgun from her shoulder, a snarl twisting her pretty face. But after a moment of glaring down the sights, she lowered it again, cursing audibly enough for Michael to read the fury on her lips. Ammunition, it seemed, was a currency even more precious than water.
The battle on the walls reached a new peak of ferocity. Andrew's men, inspired by their leader's lethal display, fought with renewed desperation, but they were being overwhelmed. Bodies fell, the walkways growing slick with blood. Just as the line seemed ready to break, Andrew himself surged forward. A faint, shimmering aura—pale gold and flickering like heat haze—briefly outlined his form. He moved with blinding speed, his axe cleaving through an attacker's guard and into his chest with a sickening crunch. "Hold the line!" he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap of authority.
Then, to Michael's utter astonishment, the man turned and fled. Not towards another part of the wall, but down a ladder, sprinting back into the heart of the town, towards the three-story building that housed the Honey and Maiden.
"Cowardly sod," Michael muttered under his breath, a hot flush of contempt warming his face. "Off to grab his loot and run."
He was wrong.
The sound that followed was not the clinking of coins, but the groaning protest of ancient, rusted metal. From behind the tavern, a section of shanty town was violently shoved aside as a monstrous shape ground into view. It was a tank. A real, honest-to-goodness, Second World War-era M4 Sherman. Its green paint was a memory under layers of ochre rust and grime. Its treads squealed and clanked, one track seeming to lag behind the other, giving its advance a lurching, drunken gait. Smoke, thick and black, belched from its exhaust. But it was moving. It was alive.
Michael's mind, trained on pixelated battlefields of World of Tanks, recognized the silhouette instantly. Thirty tons of archaic, indomitable firepower. A single, undeniable question mark placed at the end of Jaunysmoke's rebellion. Why hadn't Andrew led with this? The answers came unbidden: scarce fuel, perhaps. Or maybe the beast was on its last legs, this one desperate sortie its final act.
The psychological impact was immediate and total. The attackers who had breached the walls took one look at the advancing steel behemoth and their courage evaporated. They scrambled back over the parapet, a wave of panic crashing back through their own ranks. Jaunysmoke's shouts, her furious gesticulations with the shotgun, were useless. The tide had turned.
With a grinding of gears that sounded like the gnashing of metal teeth, the Sherman reached the gate. The remaining defenders heaved the Greyhound bus aside with a concerted effort, and the tank rumbled through, a dinosaur unleashed upon a world of mammals.
Jaunysmoke, standing defiantly by her immobilized armored rickshaw, made her last stand. She raised the shotgun, her expression a mask of furious despair, and fired both barrels point-blank at the tank's glacis plate.
BOOM-BOOM!
The sound was immense, a physical force that rolled across the plain. A cloud of rust and pulverized paint bloomed where the buckshot struck. The tank shuddered, but did not stop. When the dust settled, only two shiny, fresh dents marred its ancient hide.
Defeat, complete and absolute, washed over her features. A sharp gesture sent her long-legged driver-pedaling furiously. The man, muscles straining, managed to get the heavy, armored trike up to a surprising speed, easily outpacing the lurching Sherman. For a glorious, fleeting moment, escape seemed possible.
Then, with a sound like a gunshot, the bicycle chain—stressed beyond its decades-old limits—snapped.
Jaunysmoke and her driver didn't hesitate. They abandoned their metal steed and sprinted for the rocky hills to the left, the one terrain feature that might slow the tank. But fate was cruel. After only a few strides, Jaunysmoke's left foot twisted on a loose stone. She went down hard, a cry of pain and frustration torn from her lips. Her driver, a glance of pure terror over his shoulder, did not break stride. He vanished into the scrub, leaving her behind.
She struggled to rise, but her ankle gave way beneath her. The Sherman, having turned with agonizing slowness, was now bearing down on her, its machine gunner swiveling his weapon in her direction. Michael, watching through the telescope, saw the exact moment hope died in her eyes. It was replaced by a flat, empty acceptance. She wouldn't even be worth a shell from the main gun; the co-axial machine gun would shred her where she lay.
It was at this precise moment that Michael Gao, failed salesman, debtor, and interdimensional tourist, did something so recklessly stupid it made the Ogre behind him grunt in surprise.
In a blur of motion, he was on his scooter. He didn't take the path. He aimed the little machine straight down the steep, rocky face of the hill they were perched on. The world became a juddering, teeth-rattling nightmare of bouncing shocks and screeching tires. Gravel sprayed. Twigs snapped against his legs. He was a man possessed, a kamikaze delivery driver on a suicide mission.
A noble part of his brain, the part that read chivalric tales as a boy, screamed that he could not stand by and watch such a thing happen. But the larger, more pragmatic, and frankly terrified part was already running the numbers. The Sherman tank was a relic, its top speed laughable compared to his scooter's frantic, downhill-assisted velocity. The risk, while insane, was calculated. He could reach her, scoop her up, and be gone before the tank's turret could traverse.
And if he saved her… what then? Gratitude? A potential ally? A formidable, if treacherous, partner in this brutal new world? The barmaid-turned-warlord clearly had ambition, resources, and a ruthless streak a mile wide. She was also, he couldn't help but note even now, stranded directly in the path of a very angry, very slow tank.
It was, he realized as the wind whipped tears from his eyes, a gamble. But then, stepping through a glowing green door into a nuclear wasteland had been a gamble. Pawning his last possession to buy an Ogre fast food had been a gamble. His entire life was now a series of escalating, desperate wagers. What was one more?
He gunned the throttle, the engine screaming in protest as he hurtled towards the stranded woman and the advancing wall of rusted steel.