The world seemed to shake as something massive slammed into the ground above. Stone and sand peppered down at first, then came in a cascade behind Manuel. He swiveled about to see their escape route blocked.
"No turning back," said the sergeant, turning to face Manuel and the other three in the group. It wasn't an easy thing to do: the tunnels were small and tight. A man couldn't stand in them, but he could crawl or walk on his knees. The air was cooler than the outside, at least; a blessing Manuel was thankful for. That didn't keep his hands and face from getting sweaty.
"We have one shot at this,
one. You know your jobs. The moment I give the order, we blow those raider shitheads straight to Hell.
Comprenden?"
"
Si, sargento!" Manuel snapped back. Everyone else did the same. His gun trembled in his hands... or were his hands trembling around his gun? No, it was definitely the gun.
The Latino sergeant flashed a huge grin, pointing up at the tunnel ceiling. "Then let's fry these bastards. Sand Wraiths, you know what to do."
They did. All of them knew what to do more than Manuel, but he knew enough. He was the group's spotter. He scuttled over to one of the trapdoors in the ceiling and took out his makeshift periscope (a tube with mirrors attached to either end) and took a deep breath. Manuel remembered which direction east was. The sun was still rising, and the last word they'd received was that the enemy was coming from the southwest. After steeling himself, he opened the trapdoor.
Wind tossed some sand into the tunnel, but not much. The top of the trapdoor was covered with an adhesive, so the sand and rocks atop it weren't going anywhere. But that wasn't important; what
was important was...
"Holy shit," mumbled Manuel. "They got a tank."
"What, a Frankentank?" asked one of the guys behind him.
"No, damn it!" rasped Manuel to his squadmates. "They have a
tank! I'm talking three barrels of whoop-ass on a treaded shitstick! I'm talking pre-war tank with three guns!
Three guns!"
It was everything Manuel had never wanted to see. It was huge. He didn't know what kind it was or if historians could even figure that out anymore: it was just big and scary and
holy shit did it look like a monster. It was the bull of all tanks, the Devil on treads, a-
"Focus!" hissed the Sergeant. "Do you see any weak points?"
Manuel took a deep breath, then did just that. He focused.
"Looks patched up," he mumbled as he saw the beast of war fire another couple of shots off to the north. "Its attention is facing north, toward the militia. Looks like it's got like five fuckers on horseback with sort'a pre-war army guns guarding it. And it's..." He paused.
"Hurry up, Manuel," growled someone.
"Th-the treads," he stammered. "If we can take out the treads, it'll be a sitting duck. And the thing's in shitty shape. If it stops moving we'll have 'em by their
cajones."
"Then that's what we'll do," said the sergeant with a nod. Manuel looked behind him to see the man grabbing some red sticks off his belt. They were wrapped with a cloth that had a big, yellow smiley face plastered on them. "How many meters?"
"One hundred tops," Manuel answered.
"Good. Shoot the riders. Chelsea, you and me are gonna blow this thing up," said the sergeant firmly. "Everyone else, you just shoot anyone that tries to kill us. Tell us when to move, Manuel."
There was a stiff, heavy silence in the tunnel. Manuel watched as the tank and its guards moved a little further, and a little further still. He waited patiently, though he cringed each time it fired shots toward the militia. He knew people were dying to that thing. He had to wait just a little... longer...
"Flank's open! Go!" Manuel said. He dropped his periscope, lifted his hunting rifle, and his world became a cacophony of gunfire.
His first shot was a clear miss, whizzing way past the head of one of the guys on horseback. The man turned just in time to get a bullet to his chest, knocking him off his horse, and then his horse took a bullet to the head and fell atop him. Another rider clutched his shoulder as blood burst from it, and two raiders on foot threw themselves to the ground to avoid being made pincushions. Then came the second volley of bullets and more riders fell from their horses, screaming and shouting obscenities.
Manuel shouted at the top of his lungs. No, he screamed. He wasn't sure exactly what he screamed; it was just anger and fear all muddled up in one big mess. He looked over to his right and saw what looked like a swarm of raiders surging over the dunes at the distant palisade the militia were holed up behind. It was in shambles. He couldn't see how many bodies there were, but there were bodies, and there was smoke and fire and death. Something in Manuel was incised, and he focused his attention on the tank again.
Chelsea and the sergeant were rushing toward the tank, and Manuel understood just what sort of danger they were in when some
son-of-a-bitch poked his head out from the top of the tank and grabbed the smallest of the three guns on the tank. It wasn't a cannon. Manuel wasn't sure what it was until the man started pounding the sand with rapid-fire rounds. It fired bullets faster than any weapon Manuel had ever seen, and he couldn't help but scream again as the sergeant went down in a crimson mess.
Manuel fired again twice more when the bastard with the big gun started turning his sights on him. Manuel immediately ducked back into the tunnel and slammed the trapdoor shut. He heard bullets slam against the ground and the reinforced door over his head, and he gasped for breath. Then he heard a groan, and when he looked to his left he saw one of his friends go limp inside the tunnel. He was dead.
It took everything Manuel had to shove himself back to his feet, poke his head out, and take aim at the gunner. He would've thanked God if he was thinking clearly enough to thank God. Instead, he just acted on instinct: the moment that bastard was in his ironsight, he fired. Manuel's target didn't get back up.
There was Chelsea with red sticks in her hand. She lobbed one bundle right in front of the tank's treads, then started climbing atop it. As the explosion rocked the vehicle and stopped it in its tracks, she yanked the dead body of the man Manuel had killed to the side and jumped on into the tank with another stick of dynamite. There was gunfire, and moments later there was an explosion.
The tank stopped moving.
Manuel looked to his right and noticed there were only two others left besides him that were still alive. He took a deep breath, then snapped, "Back into the tunnels! We gotta help the militia!"
