Sergeant Dupont walked along in front of the petroleum shipment, chatting with the constable he’d assigned to point. After putting his back out last winter he’d been stuck in the office for months; it was good to be out in the open again with the road under his feet, the sun on his back, and the conversation of the young man beside him.
Behind him marched the rest of the patrol, male and female, all of them his ‘Boys!’ armed with shotguns and rifles. The wagon train was pulled by a group of oxen, with a constable at the reigns. The ancient oil tankers had been taken from rail cars and strapped down to truck beds. None of the wheels matched, but the wagons rolled smoothly.
Clouds were beginning to form, blocking the midmorning sun. It was a two hour journey to the electrical plant, and already the smell of rain was in the air. The Mennites might welcome it, but he wouldn’t mind if it held off for a few hours.
They were leaving the ruins of a prewar town, entering the blowing fields beyond. A line of water shimmered off to their left.
The bark of gun fire shattered the calm.
Dupont hit the ground. The constable he’d been talking to jerked once before crumpling. He heard the shouts of the others as they moved to return fire.
The building where the shots were coming from was set back from the road, fifty meters distant. It was burnt out from an ancient fire, its red bricks soot streaked, its windows gaping maws. Muzzle flashes lit up the lower storey, sparking the darkness. Bullets ripped through the air, ricocheting off a wall behind him and penetrating the tankers, ringing hollowly.
Dupont returned fire, aiming at the muzzle flashes. Things were moving too slowly; he was going into a panic, powerless to stop it. Not knowing whether his shots had connected, he got up, running for cover behind the wagons. He was the Sergeant; he needed to rally his boys so they could return fire effectively.
A fist hit him hard in the back and he started to fall. His right arm turned to rubber and he lost hold of his weapon. Time was still moving slowly and he could feel the rifle rotating under him; he wanted to grab it but his left arm was too far away, twirling in the air in a futile attempt to recover balance. The weapon jammed under his left side as he hit the ground, digging into his armpit as his jaw slid against the asphalt.
He tried to get up but his muscles wouldn’t respond. He tried to call out but he’d been winded. He gasped like a fish, and his chest wouldn’t move.
There was a sudden stabbing pain in his ribs and his muscles awoke, sending a violently shiver down his body. A pathetic yelp escaped with his first breath; he’d been shot. He twisted his head to the left. He could make out the dying cries of his boys, the glug and splash of petroleum as it poured out the bullet holes, and the terrified bellows of the oxen. The fight couldn’t be over already. He wanted to shout something, anything, but his chest wasn’t working properly.
Blood loss — Dupont was getting cold, light headed. He needed first aid. He could get up — he needed to! — but he couldn’t summon the will. The petroleum was hypnotic; transparently green, it splashed in a shower of droplets as it hit the pavement. The pavement was hot on his cheek…
His senses were dimming and losing focus. I need to move, he levered his good arm under him, pushing, hearing somebody scream in pain, when all of a sudden a boot kicked his shoulder, flipping him over and bringing things back into focus. He looked up to see a giant standing over him, silhouetted by the sun, teeth glinting in a smirk.
Dupont’s last thoughts were frustration over his inability to raise his arms in defence as the giant raised a pistol and aimed between his eyes.