Retreat? - Part 2

Time seemed to stand still as Captain Garret watched Costello limp away from the camp. His gun was still aimed at the deserter, his finger ready to pull the trigger at any time. But he couldn't. Costello's words rang in his ears, the truth behind them freezing him on the spot. Indecision racked him as the silhouette of Costello grew smaller and smaller. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Finally, he dragged his arm upwards and emptied his entire magazine onto the air, screaming in frustration.

He kept pulling the trigger, even after he ran out of bullets. The firing mechanism clicked uselessly against the empty chamber, but he kept pulling, and he kept screaming. He screamed until his lungs gave out and collapsed into a wheezing pile on the ground. The sergeant who initially shot Costello in the leg came running to his aid, but the Captain brushed off the helpful hand. He was kneeling on the ground, coughing and sputtering.

The sergeant kept a respectful distance form the Captain, but hung around out of concern. It wasn't long before Garret recovered and slumped into a sitting position. Murray started to say something but Garret raised his hand and shook his index finger. I know what you are going to say. I don't need to hear it.

Captain Garret just sat there, staring at the ground, trying to get his thoughts back in order. In fact, he was so engrossed with his contemplations that he never noticed that Murray wasn't standing close to him anymore. Nor did he notice the bright lights that were dancing around him. Nor the screaming that was coming from the camp. Wait. Screaming?

Garret looked up and saw Murray suspended in midair, a huge thorn being pressed into his skull. The fact that he was already dead didn't make any of it more comforting to watch. His mouth was gaping, as if screaming. Blood streamed out of his ears.

All around the camp, his other men were suffering different, but ultimately gruesome fates. Garret could see MacKenzie being mauled by what looked like a phantom image of a wolf. The shimmering beast would have looked magnificent if it wasn't for the mask of blood that it now wore. It wasn't eating. It was destroying its victim in a show of mindless violence, claws and teeth tearing mercilessly into flesh.

Another ghostly figure flew about rapidly, fusing itself with his soldiers and causing them to explode into a shower of blood. It was incredibly efficient, sending bits of muscle and bone flying in every direction seconds after it merged with its victim. And shortly after that, it would float again, looking for someone else to murder.

Garret couldn't believe it. He was a practical man, and seeing such supernatural forces at work left him reeling. As he watched the bloodshed, he searched for an explanation. There was no way that it was the Germans. If they really did have control over such potent power the war would have been over long ago. All he could think of at that point was sorcery. Some pagan, druidic force seemed to be at work here, seeing how all the agents of death seemed to have taken shapes derived from nature.

It was then that it hit him. The phrase 'we were never meant to take that hill' took on a whole new meaning now. Somewhere, scrawled across the pages of things that are meant to be, it must be written that the hill cannot be taken by them. The hill didn't want to be taken, and it was fighting back. As potent as the howitzers were, there was no way the German army could match such power. The hill had spoken, and he had to go. Leave or die a horrible death, the message was clear. For a moment, he thought of reasoning with the hill, finding some way to win its allegiance. But he soon realized that the Germans had known the hill for much longer than he did. There was no question about who the hill would side in a conflict.

He sighed, resigned to defeat. His harbinger of death had arrived, and strangely enough, it was an angel. It had black feathers, black hair, and it wore black robes. But its skin was pale as the moon. It landed two feet away from Garret, sword raised. He looked up, and could have sworn he saw a tear forming in the angel's eye. But he would never get a second look.

There is nothing quite as decisive as an angel bent on destruction.