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The wind blew forlornly across the dead land, taking with it the few specks of ashes that still fell. The barren earth, rendered a opaque black, contrasted starkly with the gray sky. Nothing grew here, not the smallest blade of grass. The ground hadn't seen sun for months. First, it was the red, hellish clouds, the toxic fumes, which eventually gave way to acid rain, and finally to this eternal puffy gray sky. What was most apparent to any individual unlucky enough to find themselves here, however, was the silence. The stillness of it all. The glassy earth stretched for miles, rising here, falling there, eddies and currents and slag solidified. It looked, for all reasonable intents and purposes, like a snapshot of a great ocean, the waves dark and black and murky and the depths concealing skeletons of both people and buildings.
This was once Bonitaña. This proud land, once at the center of history, surviving war after war was now a mausoleum, an eternally preserved memorial to the hundreds of thousands who had died.
Thunder rumbled. The first sound. A storm was coming, far off in the distance, bringing with it toxic rain. The second sound was quieter, a low pitched whine of engines, growing louder and louder until the fat, squat, and ugly aircraft blew directly overhead, descending, and settling down. The top layer of glass cracked under the weight of the heavy tires.
It was an military transport gunship, not yet repainted. The only mark betraying its new owners was a logo on the side door - "MEC", followed by a stylized image of a bucket-wheel excavator.
The side door slid open, and two pairs of boots dropped. Again, the top layer of glass cracked under their weight.
"Thought this shit was supposed to be tough." The first voice was deeper, clipped, rough. The man swaggered over a few feet, looking around.
"It's tough. This is just the very top layer, exposed to the air and unrefined."
The second voice was a bit lighter, a little less cynical. He stooped down, picking up a thin sheet of the material, and holding it up. Looking through it, up to the sky. It was like looking through sunglasses. He held it closer to his eyes.
"Huh, you listened to the lecture. Let's get set up." the first man said, turning from the desolate view and returning back to the craft.
...
The men struggled to get the heavy machine out of the side cargo door, breathing heavily as they lowered it down to the ground.
"Careful. You're gonna fuckin' drop it."
"I know what I'm doing. Lighten up a little, man. You aren't in the Heer anymore."
The first man looked up, startled. "How'd you know?" The second man simply pointed to the first man's arm. In moving the machine, he had rolled up his sleeves, exposing a tattoo of the iron cross surrounded by roses.
"The cross and roses. You were in the 109th. That, and the MEC only hires ex-soldiers for this shit."
"So I was." The first soldier smiled, his first show of friendliness. "And you?"
"Hundred-tenth airborne. 'Xeno-Meano's.'"
The first soldier guffawed. "Here I was, thinkin' you were just some 'civvie. Xeno-Meanos. You fuckers were up to your necks in real shit."
The second grinned. "You know it. Weren't cooling our pretty heels in Nov like the 109th. Jackson Hewitt, at your service."
The first soldier turned, lighting a cigarette. "Frederick Naples. And Luckily, I got some action. EFR.
Jackson studied the machine. "Tell me about it after we turn this thing on. We're behind schedule.
Frederick nodded. "Masks on."
Both men reached into a pack - for Jackson, it was at his side. For Fred, it had been left by the gunship. They removed gas masks, military variants, and put them on, securing them snugly. Jackson spoke as he moved back to the machine, flipping some switches and preparing the reading.
"Reminds me of the last time I was here."
Frederick looked up, his surprise difficult to read through his mask. It was in his voice, muffled. "You fought here?"
Jackson removed a remote from the machine, and pressed a button. The legs extended, raising the cylinder up a foot and a half.'
"Yeah. Looked a lot different then."
There was silence for a few moments, as the machine powered up. It emitted a low-pitched squeal which turned into a shrieking whine.
Finally, Jackson continued. "They, uh, pulled us out. Saw the place burn. Spots in my eyes for days afterward. I'll never forget it. God's wrath."
Frederick nodded, saying nothing. Both men stepped back. Jackson looked at the remote.
"Ready?", he said.
Frederick nodded. "Hit it."
Jackson pressed a button, and a thin laser blazed from the bottom of the cylinder, burning into the ground. Noxious fumes rose from the melting glass as the laser cut its way slowly down. The loud scream of melting glass echoed around the empty landscape, cutting into the silence once more.
"This is gonna take a while." Frederick muttered, though it was impossible to hear through the mask and the sound of the machine.
...
Two hours later, both Frederick and Jackson were startled by the sudden return of silence. The laser flicked off.
Both waited a few seconds for the fumes to dissipate. Frederick was the first to remove his mask. "Well, that took way longer than fuckin' expected."
"Agreed", Jackson said. "Let's see what it says." He fished for the remote, looking at the screen. "Twenty-one point-two meters down."
Frederick whistled. "Wow. Alright, let's get it transmitted, and then move to the next site."
...
The noise of the borer still rang in Jackson's ears as he opened the brown paper bag, peering down into the contents of his lunch. A large roast-turkey sandwich, chips, a cookie, and a bottle of water. He hungrily fished the sandwich out and took a bite. While doing so, he caught a glimpse of Frederick praying. Jackson stopped chewing, and waiting until Frederick crossed himself and looked down at his own meal. Only then did Jackson resume eating.
"I didn't know you were Pontifical."
Frederick looked over, took a swig of water, and replied.
"Yeah. I had an experience when I was in Ecclesia. Long story . Never was the same coming out."
Jackson nodded, and finished off the first half of his sandwich. "So, you think they'll actually do it?"
"Do what?"
"Boil the place. Get the glass."
"Why wouldn't they? Why the hell are we here if they wouldn't?"
Jackson looked over. "Wait, you haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
Jackson took a bite of the second half. "The Wiltshirians. They're raising a fuss. They don't like that they're using decommed zepps."
Frederick rolled his eyes. "Oh. Fuckin Willies. Jesus. Bonitaña used to be our land, anyhow. Who the fuck cares if we mine here? Hell, we're closer to Zaandam then we are to Wiltshire right now."
Jackson looked down at his bag, grabbing his chips. "I kind of get it."
Fred looked over. "Oh, you kind of get it? How do you get it?"
Jackson leaned back. "Last time zepp's were here, they burned an entire fuckin' city. Stands to reason they wouldn't want 'em back.*
Fred guffawed, then said, almost indirectly. "Fucking Willies can't forget the war. You just wait - they'll probably raise a big fuss, maybe get the 'Dud involved, it'll all blow over, and then the company'l mine. Damn politics."
Jackson said, matter-of-factly. "You talk like you're still in the service."
Fred took out his cookie and took a bite. "They're weak. Look, someone from up above will offer a deal, or maybe our government will get involved, and something'll give. It's money, not politics, that runs Wiltshire. Haven't you listened to Crawley's speeches?"
Jackson shook his head. "Barely even know who the man is."
Fred sighed. "I fought against those fuckers. Second-to-last tour of duty. They were weak then, they'll be weak now."
Jackson finished his cookie, and stood, taking a swig of water. "Maybe it's you who can't forget the war."
....
The two men strained as they lifted the machine back into the transport. As they lifted, Jackson saw Frederick's coat lift just enough to reveal the butt of a service pistol. As they stepped back, Jackson scratched the side of his head, and said, "You've got a gun on you."
Fred said nothing for a few seconds. "So I do. That a problem?"
Jackson climbed into the VTOL, shaking his head. "I don't give a shit. Just make sure to hide it when you get back. 'Supposed to be a demilita-"
Fred interrupted him. "I heard the briefing. I don't give a shit. Besides, you'd have to be crazy to come here unarmed."
Jackson feigned ignorance. "Why? Nothing out here but glass for miles."
Fred guffawed. "No matter how much the MEC corpos want to say the place is abandoned, it's not. Not that they matter much - only people out here are Republik loyalists. Hiding in the old bunkers from the war. Real mean fuckers. They kill people from the surrounding rural areas, steal their shit. Plot for the return of their glorious Kanzler. Nutjobs."
Jackson moved to the wall separating the gunship's robotic control center from the troop hold. "Those are just rumors. Nobody could survive out here."
Fred climbed in, lowering a jump seat. He then hit the door panel, the two cargo doors sliding shut. The engine jumped to life as Jackson punched in a command to a terminal on the wall.
"Not rumors. Remember that nuke that the Rockfieldians got a few months back? Shit came from right here. Tons of weapons buried under our feet. They're gonna have to clear them out before they mine. Might be what we do next week. Then, we'll have to go into the bunkers. You'll want a gun when that happens."
Jackson turned, peering around the cargo bay for a camera. Being satisfied, he lifted his own jacket, revealing the handle of a revolver.
Fred broke into a big smile. Jackson grinned, then asked, "Where'd you get yours? That's an officer's pistol. Don't tell me you were an officer."
Fred strapped himself into the jumpseat, cracking his neck from side to side. "Fuck no. Pawned it off one. Bastard had been doing 'work' in Arztotzka.*
Jackson and Fred shared a dark glance. Fred continued. "Damn near looked like he was gonna shoot himself with it. Needed the money - whether it was for his next war crimes lawyer, or a drink, I don't know. I was happy to oblige."
Jackson strapped himself in as well. "It's almost poetic, I guess."
"What's that?"
Jackson buckled the last clasp, looking out the thin window to the bleak, desolate landscape they were leaving.
"Republik soldiers burned this place to an ember. Now, we're burning it again."
By: chisel_tip