We Damned Fools.

Stone looked out over the rubble that was once Manehattan. He sighted in on some movement off to his right. A helmet popped up, the spiked helmet of a grif. He waited, it moved from side to side, then disappeared. A man appeared, slowly studying his surroundings. He motioned behind him. Three more men came from the trench below. Stone sighted his rifle on the men. He pulled the trigger, the first man dropped. Waiting, he saw what they would do. They didn’t re enter the trench, instead running forward to the nearest pile of rubble. He worked the bolt of his rifle and watched. One came peering out, he died swiftly.

Stone sat like this for the better part of the day, watching the pile of rubble around fifty yards away. Slowly the men fell, till only one remained. This one was smart, he refused to move from behind the rubble, but not smart enough to retreat to his trench line. The heat beat down on the shell battered landscape, Stone sat below a piece of home that fell over a remnant of a wall, creating a small opening for Stone to nestle into.

The grif made his fatal move, he peered over the rubble after the better half of the day. Stone finally relaxed, resting his head upon the ground, it was over for now. He was alone here now, his squad was sent back with the others, only Stone and a select few were left now, to cause chaos to grif. The sun set now, Stone would retreat then, to the new line, tonight they had orders to retreat for good, however many were left.

Night cascaded over him, it cooled him, cooled the sweat that had accumulated over his body. He put the rifle strap over his body, he pulled the revolver. The leather holster had began to wear on the black finish, it was now a light grey color. He gripped it tightly as he navigated the barren waste that was once the city. Campfires littered the area, he avoided them. He looked at the moon, he was nights child, darkness like the rest of the killers on this battlefield. He silently navigated to the bridge out of town, a train was there.

He crawled toward the train. He could see equestrian troops manning the train, guns aimed at the city. “Who’s that out there? They put a spotlight on him. “You’re one of ours? Alright, there’s a cart in the back, see the sergeant outside it, then you can go in and get some rest. We’ve got another hour to go before we head out.”

Stone saw the sarge and entered the cabin. Inside were a series of bunks, to his left he saw a shower, he stripped before he had even cleared the final step.

He showered and reentered the bed area of the cart. There were three other men. Two were playing cards, one was sitting, staring blankly at the wall across from his bed. Stone recognized him. “Sergeant Steam Track? That you sir?” He walked over to the man. He was shaking slightly, he did not speak, only blinked occasionally. The man had broken, the death around him too much, the terrible weight.

“He can’t hear you, he’s retreated inside himself.” Stone looked at the man, he sat playing cards on a bed with the other man. “He’s shell shocked, blown his spirit away.”

Stone looked at Steam again, he laid down on the bunk beside him, the revolver under his pillow.

The sun rose over the land as Stone awoke from his slumber. They stopped outside of the city, about three miles west. For as far as the eye could see they had trenches stretching north to south, up and down the coast. His squad was there to greet him, smiling and joking they lead him to their new home. It was, quite literally, a hole. He reported to the command station to receive his orders.

The land before Stone was shrouded in darkness, like the moon it was covered in craters, and like the moon seemed totally alien to the equestria soldiers on the line. Stone sat in a rocky outcropping above the griffon lines, watching them scuttle like ants to and fro. He saw the officer, his cavalry boots polished, his hair neatly trimmed. He kept a polished cavalry saber, intricate designs engraved down the blade. He had the same revolver on his side as Stone, but his was nickel plated, the same intricate designs in the metal as on the sword. Stone aimed for his head, his neatly trimmed facial hair, waxed and combed.

The grifs scattered, hitting the deck and rolling under and behind anything they could find. He cocked the bolt and chambered another round. He waited for them to settle in once more, like animals from hibernation, they cautiously peered from their holes. Someone began to gather the body of the officer up, throwing him onto a wheelbarrow.

Five today, possibly a sixth. Nipped him, ran before I could confirm the shot. Good day, coming back tomorrow, then I’ll need a new spot.

An artillery barrage pounded the grif trenches that night, Stone lay awake listening to the drum beats of the cannonade. He could almost hear the trumpets sounding off, a musical procession that lasted the night through. He pulled her letter from his backpack, ran his fingers over it, he looked up at the spotlights in the night sky, he stood and looked over no man's land, he had a link to the outside here. He hadn’t received any letters since, perhaps her fancy faded.

The lights on the shell pocked waste glittered on the mud like ocean waves in the sun. The swampy air filled his lungs, he watched the grif search light sweep the ground. Lighting cracked in the distance, thunder rolled across the land, deafening, artillery be damned.

Rain came down in droves that day, a thick coastal storm cascading them, the trenches canals for the water. Boots sloshed through the muck, a man tripped and fell, his comrades laughed and helped him up. Stone watched the grifs help the man up, he heaved a sigh, the man's uniform stained brown now, he smiled and laughed at himself.

The man fell into the mud with a splosh of water, the men stopped laughing, two more fell in the span of a minute, those left dropped into the mud. Stone halted, he let the cooling water wash down his back, he hadn’t showered in nearly two months. He wiped the water from his eyes, he looked out across the maze of trenches ahead of him, intersecting and criss-crossing to and fro. He laid the rifle beside himself and flipped to his back.

Thunder boomed across the land, he closed his eyes, the sound echoes around him, in the craters, the trenches, behind his eyes. He remembered the storm from Manhattan's shore, the beginning of this dreadful war. A burst of machine gun fire from down the trench line, he inhaled, an artillery barrage. He heard the impact, the calling for help, he exhaled.

The trenches behind him stirred, he could hear them rising from the water, they pulled the dead through the muck and the mud to the rear. He lay like this for the better part of the day, the chill of the rain washed over him, he was sick by the time he returned to the line.

In the medical tent he lay, eyes closed, not sleeping, just waiting. The storm continued outside, he could hear the streams of water flowing into the trenches. The doctor walked in, “You feeling alright Corporal Stone?”

“Yes doc.”

“You need anything? Some water, food?” Stone shook his head no. “Well, get some sleep then, you’re being discharged back to the front in two days.” Stone nodded.

He heard crying, screaming, two men entered carrying a stretcher. The man on the stretcher was coughing, crying, screaming, everything in between. “What happened to him?”

“Grif shelled us, shells weren’t explosive though, had gas in ‘em. Gas spread out, this guys took a wiff, in minutes was crying and carrying on like this. Three more just like him got taken over to baker tent, hell of a thing that gas, green and nasty. It didn’t blow away, settled into the trench, sat there till some bloke with a notebook went up and waved it away.

Stone sat up. “Notebook? One of the guys carried to baker, wasn’t named Candlestick were they?” The guys shrugged, sat the man on the stretcher on on an empty bed. Stone jumped out of his bed, he wasn’t wearing a uniform, only his boxers.

The doctor saw him run from the tent. “Corporal Stone? Where are you going?” Stone simply ran, he ran into the trenches, the water reached his knees, he just kept running, he’d slip and jump back up, keeping on his way. The doctor was behind him the whole way, but Stone was faster.

Stone ran to a dead end, he climbed the wall. He entered open ground, he ran faster without the water. A grif mg opened up, peppering the ground around him, he slid into the next trench line, a bullet caught his arm. He found the exit to baker tent. Entering the tent he found Sketch sitting by Candlestick. He walked up, Candle’s eyes were closed, his breathing raspy and difficult. Stone closed his eyes.

Stone awoke in the medical tent. The men moved the man onto the empty bed, Stone inhaled, he had been dreaming, passed out as they spoke. He calmed his breathing and leaned back. Sleep overtook him.