The Road to Hell, Part 1

Under thundering skies, the rain poured down on the cold stone of the pathways cutting in between the chapels and apartments of Levacaloo. The water washed down the stone spires, as cold and uncaring as those who feasted and left the rest to starve. But soon, that mindset would be no more. Bellafide would make sure of it.

Although he hated getting his coat wet or otherwise dirty, he hated the clergy more, and couldn’t wait to see their terrified faces as he stormed into their sacred chapels when they had gorged themselves, and were too fat to run away. His scowl became more set into his brow. And then we feast on them.

“Heyyy, uh...boss…?”

Arroyo shot a glance to his right. A ferret marched alongside him, toting his mobile artillery launcher on his back. He pursed his lips and continued, “...You okay…? You look more...angry...than usual.”

Arroyo brought his gaze forward. “No, no, Ardin. Not angry. Just...determined,” he replied. No one else would talk to him; there was nothing to discuss. The Longcoats had entrenched themselves in The Bonepits using the piles of bones left behind by the many feasts as barriers, hidden traps, and even their own warrens. Arroyo knew that after this, there was no returning from the path he set himself and his army down. But he felt no regret, or even uncertainty. He was doing this for Junior. He might not have been able to give his son a proper funeral, but he could certainly give him a proper sendoff.

The army strode up more of the dozens of stone stairways until they found a flatter stretch of land, covered in bullet hives. Above, Arroyo could see the silhouettes of the falcons circling overhead. He stopped and retreated a few steps, just to be sure he and his men weren’t in their range of vision. Arroyo, the Freight Union, the Distillery Brothers, and his own Wing Demons.

He looked around. His troops were crouching down on the steps, some huddled together, some looking up into the sky. A few of the squirrels were taking extra shots from their bottles of orn. Arroyo huffed and motioned for everyone to get as close as possible. “Whatcha need, boss? Whatcha want us to do?” one of the Brothers asked.

“All of you boys,” he said, pointing to the squirrels, “stay back. The Freight Union will fire on the bullet hives the Civilized. You stay behind them and harass the Wing Demons.”

“Thought that was our job, sir,” said one of the falcons, landing on the ground a few feet to Arroyo’s right.

“It is,” he replied, “We need to get into the feasting halls as fast as lightning while taking as few casualties as possible. Once that happens…” Arroyo trailed off.

Another ferret grinned. “Once that happens, we eat,” he cried.

This remark was met with wild cheering, and Arroyo knew that if the Wing Demons didn’t hear it first, his army would get too impatient and charge without him. So with that in mind, Arroyo stood himself up and with steely will, marched forward. His troops followed him happily, and a few of the more inebriated squirrels started firing their revolvers at the opposing falcons while they were still dozens of feet away. And once they had the Civilized’s attention, they kept it.

“It’s the traitor! Don’t let them through! All fighters, fire at will!” One of the falcons issued their orders, and soon, the rain stopped falling on the ground, because it was all being blocked by hundreds of falcons, flying right at the Longcoat army that stood in defiance of them and all they stood for.

Many of the Wing Demons dipped low and the machine guns started firing as they began conducting hit and run tactics. It was successful, at the start, as they killed off a majority of the squirrels who were too drunk to know what was happening, as well as killing a few more ferrets. However, once Arroyo’s Wing Demons came in, the Civilized soldiers were too busy dealing with them to focus fire on the ground forces.

Arroyo looked up at the dogfight, and the few bodies that were falling every so often. He had to slap a few wrists to keep his soldiers from dragging the carcass away immediately and getting distracted of course, but otherwise, he marched forward with the Freight Union and the remaining Distillery Brothers at his side. He outpaced his army and the first line of machine guns began firing at him, but the ferrets all started launching dozens of volleys at the encampments, and one by one, the bullet hives crumbled.

The Longcoats marched forward, through ever thicker machine gun fire. Those who hadn’t died from being riddled with bullets were, at the very least, bleeding profusely from seven or more puncture wounds; not even Arroyo was exempt from this rule.

He clutched at his arm, shot in three places just below the shoulder. He and his soldiers had pushed through most of the lines of machine guns, but he could see, coming over the hill, that their battle wasn’t done yet. The Morning Light Croakers hopped fervently over the hills, croaking a litany of prayers and curses on Arroyo’s name. He looked down at his shoulder and grunted, “I’ve been hit harder,” before running ahead.

“Forward…!”

Bellafide’s rallying cry called his troops of squirrel pistoliers and ferret artillery back to his side, instilling the resolve that only the leader of the Longcoats could give. In a wave of shouting, they surged forward through the unrelenting hail of bullets, a glint of hunger in each and every one of their eyes. The Longcoats met the Civilized forces and while the initial clash allowed some of the toads to blow themselves up safely, most after that were no more than bloody paste on the ground before the fuse could even hit powder.

Archimedes stood on the steps of one of the ancient buildings that surrounded the Monastic Gardens, gazing out solemnly at the darkened sky, lit periodically by the dull orange of muzzle flashes and black-powder explosions in the distance. He sighed deeply.

He had warned them, all of them. The lower clergy had simply waved him off and continued feasting. Archimedes snorted, wiped his brow, and marched down the steps with the few pigeons, skunks, and toads he could muster. “Follow,” he commanded in his aging, raspy voice.

“Great Missionary,” a toad by his side croaked as he hopped in stride with Archimedes, “you haven’t told us your plan to drive the traitors out.”

Archimedes sighed as he kept marching. “Ah, my child...my plan was not to drive the Longcoats away in the first place,” he explained. “We are simply going to try and kill as many of them as possible, so that we may still feast in the desert.”

“Wffr mmgkin uffghtn rtruht?” a skunk mumbled.

“Take your mask off, my son, no one can understand what’s coming out of your mouth.”

The AFB soldier promptly lifted his mask up and restated his question. “We’re making a fighting retreat?”

Archimedes turned his head and deadpanned. “Not a retreat. A debilitating skirmish.” They marched forward along the stone paths until they came to an area on the main roads that still needed some defenses. Archimedes immediately set about planting Tremormines at the foremost chokepoints, two narrow pathways between the piles of bones.

He returned to his followers, still standing at attention and alert. All that was left to do was wait, and the Longcoats made sure they didn’t wait long. They heard the numerous boots hitting the pavement before they even saw any blue peek the sightlines, but once they so much as saw the bushy tail of one of the Distillery Brothers, Archimedes cried out, “Strike!”

Dozens of skunks began launching gas directly on top of them, and Archimedes instructed his troops to move forward and fire back. They did so, lobbing gas volleys over and over. As to be expected from the traitors, they pushed forward and into Archimedes’ territory, and were hit with both the explosions of four Tremormines, two on each chokepoint, and multiple suicide runs from the Morning Light Croakers. Their sacrifices yielded large chunks of meat that the pigeons and skunks would try to drag away as quickly as they could while still firing their weapons; some of them died that way.

Archimedes had little, if any, time to strategize. He had to focus on killing as many of the Longcoats as possible. In theory, it would be simple, considering Arroyo had so many troops on his bankroll. However, that was also the problem, as hundreds more ferrets and squirrels came streaming into the narrow entrance to the Civilized section of the Bonepits, supported by hit-and-runs by dozens of falcons left over from the initial attack. They swooped in from the darkened skies, firing their guns as brazenly as possible, bullets riddling the ground just as much as their targets.

The toads continued throwing themselves at the Longcoats’ front lines, detonating and sending dozens of conscripted soldiers to black-powder graves while The AFB troops shot gas bombs into the chokepoints. The Longcoats marched through, and some ended up choking to death.

This didn’t stop the tide, however. The Longcoats simply kept coming, and it became obvious to Archimedes that he would have to retreat sooner, rather than later. “Hold!” he called as he marched out. He directed the toads to stand in position at the forefront, allowing them to run a shorter distance before detonating themselves, and built several backup warrens to allow The AFB and the Volunteers to resupply as needed. Under the constant hail of gunfire, it was a difficult task, but it was done. Archimedes stood outside the last warren he could make as the Operators swiftly built it up from the ground. “Excellent,” he muttered to himself, “This will buy me time…”

“Great Missionary!” Archimedes brought his head up and nearly jumped out of his skin. A pigeon fluttered down and perched on the warren, which was being reinforced at this point. “The Longcoats just...just keep pouring in! What are your orders?”

He was silent for a moment, but spoke with whatever wisdom he could muster in a pitched battle. “Child, you must hold as long as you can. Pass these words along to the rest of the Civilized forces,” he articulated.

As he turned around to plan a fast escape route, the pigeon asked again, “What about you, Great Missionary? What will you be doing?”

“Ah…” He paused, then quickly explained, “I will venture out to see if there are any other Civilized who yet live, and I will return to reinforce our numbers.” The pigeon nodded intensely and then flew back to the front lines with a retreating call of “Come back quickly, sir!”

Archimedes watched her go and sighed in relief. Then, he ran. He ran in the opposite direction as fast as he could. After all, a few hundred soldiers could be replaced easily; loyalty was relatively cheap these days, going for three meals a day and a roof over one’s head. His own life, however, was the only thing keeping the Civilized together. Him, and Sage Marro. He tore through The Bonepits, the thunder of distant gunfire still ringing out across the city. Archimedes was only thankful that the Longcoats hadn’t pushed further in, as getting into the countryside would be easy, even without the use of the Warrens. He just had to run a bit further…

He rounded a corner, and saw only a pole swing out to meet him. Archimedes felt it hit him in the face before it actually landed, and he was sent backward, and sprawled out on the ground. There was no time to even come to grips with the pain, as Bellafide himself, who had been waiting for the Great Missionary to show his crooked face, proceeded to roar with a fury long-repressed, and swung his own flag again in an overhead strike, determined to break Archimedes’ skull open. Archimedes countered as fast as he could, holding up his own flag to block the blow.

Arroyo was so dead set on choking the life out of Archimedes that he didn’t expect the old coot to kick him in the stomach, sending him stumbling back when the wind got knocked out of him. It allowed Archimedes to struggle to his feet, coughing and trying to numb the throbbing pain in his temples by sheer force of will as he jogged away as fast as he could.

Naturally, when Arroyo saw that, he wasn’t having any of it. “You’ll pay for what you did to my son, you hypocrite!” he yelled after Archimedes. He charged forward, still screaming, but his hatred blinded him to the fact that Archimedes might not be done. Despite the beatdown, Archimedes turned around and used that momentum to swing his banner in a wide arc. It smashed into Bellafide, sending him careening to his left and smashing into a pile of bones. They came down like an avalanche.

Arroyo was far from dead, or even out cold, but his vision was blurry, the world was spinning, and he could feel his nose bleeding. All he knew for certain was that Archimedes, from where he was standing was smiling. It wasn’t the smile of a kind minister either; it was the condescending smile that the Civilized wore whenever a new course was chosen for the Harvest. “I have seen what you have become,” he said, “and it is delicious. I can’t wait to savor it one day.”

Before Arroyo could stammer out a counter, Archimedes had run off. He couldn’t say he was surprised; the Civilized might have a garrison under their jurisdiction, but the clergy would never fight for themselves. He eventually regained the strength to stand up, brush his coat off, and look back into the horizon, filled with smoke and dimming fires rising up over the piles of bones. He grinned mirthlessly.

They had a garrison, at least.