Blighters

Captain Anders woke from an deep sleep to find someone shaking him. Rising groggily, he saw the perpetrator: a private, looking at him earnestly. "Sorry to wake you, sir," the private said, "But it's urgent. Scout's report, just in. Hundreds of Blighters, no more'n an hour out."

Anders froze. Then he bolted upright, dressing himself as quickly as possible while interrogating the private. All the responses he got were, "I'm sorry, sir. That's all he had time to say before I ran to get you."

Rushing, Anders holstered his sidearm to finish dressing. Looking at his ceremonial knife, he paused; then he took it and ran for the door, the private following him.

Below, a crowd had formed around the scout, talking excitedly. Captain Anders raised his voice. "EVERYONE! BACK TO YOUR POSITIONS!" he bellowed. The hubbub ceased; then, sheepishly, the soldiers dispersed. Anders went down the steps two at a time, jogging toward the scout.

The scout met him half-way. "It's bad, sir, very bad," he stammered.

"How bad?" Anders demanded. "We don't have much time!"

"I counted them, twice," the scout told him. "There were at least six hundred, maybe more. Light artillery in the rear, some cavalry."

Anders locked in place. His mind was filled with fear. Forty soldiers in the garrison. Six hundred - an army, here. We can't beat them. We can't win. They'll kill us all. We're doomed. I have to fight. I don't want to die. Too many to win. We're all going to die!

The private, seeing Anders lost in thought, tapped him on the shoulder. "I'll go telegraph for reinforcements, then," he suggested.

This broke Anders out of his fugue. Violently, he shook his head. "No! No," Anders refused. "Tell the communications officer to send this: 600 BLTR ATTK STOP GRRSN LST STOP BUY TIME STOP." The private, shaken, turned to the office, but Anders stopped him. "Then cut the cables, so the Blighters can't use them."

As the private ran to deliver Anders's message, Captain Anders raised his voice to shout again. "This is an emergency! All servicemen, report to the drill yard in three minutes!"

Men bolted out of bed, dressing and running for the central yard. Anders awaited them, folding his arms behind his back. Lit by the torches ringing the yard, he seemed like a ghoul or spectre, dark shadows flickering across his body.

Once the garrison was assembled, Anders began.

"The Blighters are coming. They outnumber us fifteen-to-one, and, frankly, we don't have a chance worth a damn. But we are going to fight anyway, and we are going to die like men."

"You've all heard the stories about the Blighters, I'm sure. I'll tell you this: They're all true. Death by Blighter hands is horrific. Life in their hands is worse."

"So we will not surrender. We will not run. We will fight, and buy time for the nation we protect with our lives."

"If you run, they will find you. If you hide, they will find you. And if you do not do your duty, by God I will kill you before they even get the chance. So we make our stand: here, today. Because we don't have a choice. But if we're going to die, it had better mean something."

"Within five minutes, I want all men on the walls, fully armed and equipped."

"Dismissed!"

As the other ran, the scout looked at Anders fearfully. "Was that all true? I mean, the bit about the Blighters?"

All Anders said was, "If you think they're going to take you, kill yourself first."

-

Captain Anders lay in the darkness. He thought he was bleeding, but couldn't see to confirm it. The defense had gone as expected. The darkness had given his men an edge, and the fortifications helped shield them as they fired on the enemy, blinded by their own torches; but the cannon had boomed, and the walls came tumbling down. And Anders lay bleeding as his men fought and died.

None of them fled. Anders was proud.

Slowly, the gunfire quieted. Quiet footsteps warned Anders before he saw them: two Blighters, carrying rifles with blood-stained bayonets. One of them was injured, limping slightly, but there was no sign of pain on his face. As they turned toward Anders, their eyes were dead.

Anders fumbled as they slowly approached him. He found the cold butt of his pistol, and, as quickly as he could in his weakened state, pulled it up and fired. It took eight shots to kill them both. Anders pulled the trigger again, and, as he expected, the gun clicked empty.

Attracted by the gunfire, more Blighters came, as Anders knew they would. Some of them stepped on top of the gore-covered, warm corpses of their former comrades. All their eyes were dead, staring at him blindly.

In Anders' hand, the hilt of his knife, wrapped in leather, seemed almost warm in the cold night air as he brought it up to his throat.

Author's Note: Sorry this was so dark. I wasn't actually in a bad mood when I came up with it, so I'm not sure what happened. I'll try to write a lighter post next. (I'd write Light p2, but there's one bit that's giving me a lot of trouble.)