Walk softly...
Posted: 2010-02-17 11:16pm
[/b]
Chicago, Illinois. 7:45 PM, January 3rd 2008
Henry Randolph considered himself to be a rational, reasonable man. In fact, he even felt that given the overall situation he was behaving beyond what could be reasonably expected for a twenty-four year old man. But despite all the reasoning he could conjure, he still felt very, very angry as he passed over the last beer voucher in his possession.
'At any other time in history' Henry thought, 'the rationing of liquor would have been utterly inconceivable. Only during the time of prohibition has such a terror haunted the dreams of man'. And yet, here he sat, on an old stool in an even older bar, barely even buzzed, and with only one bottle of cheap beer in front of him for the rest of the month.
'Truly,' Henry thought grimly 'this is just the start of the decay of our society'. Randolph had been avidly, or at least as avidly as he could, pursuing a degree in social philosophy. Unfortunately, the U.S Army did not think that that was an important field, or at least important enough to sacrifice an able young man. They hadn't drafted him, not yet, but pulling a straight seven-hour shift at a local plant that made parts for Abrams tanks was no walk in the park.
'This damn war has changed too much; I can't even begin to imagine what the next generation is going to be like' he thought, taking a small sip from his last Coors. 'And the beer tastes like horse piss nowadays, I can't even get a fucking Samuel Adams!'
Fate had not shone kindly on Henry these last few months. Having finally made it to college, he had been two-and-a-half years into his schooling when the message had arrived. 'and now, now I'm just another piss-ant plebe in the eyes of the world'
Fate had never truly shown kindly on him. It had only been in his last two years of high-school that he had made straight A's, mostly due to the hired tutors who had done most of the work for him. The grades were good enough to get him a scholarship to go to to the University of Illinois, It hadn't hurt that his parents happened to be benefactors of that particular college, but Henry was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
'Except now that motherfucking horse has kicked me in the face'. Henry was almost done with the Coors, despite his best efforts to make it last longer. The man behind the bar was giving him sharp looks every few moments, almost trying to subconsciously tell Henry that once he had finished his last beer, he'd better get lost. Henry simply glared back with what he surmised to be a mean look.
'How the fuck does a place like this even stay open?' Despite the rationing of food and other products, the local bars were still managing to get by quite well. 'I wouldn't be surprised if they were using the Prohibition-era tunnels to sneak in cheap booze, and that may very well explain the flavor of this shitty beer'.
The point was moot, Henry reasoned. He doubted anyone else in Chicago had any decent beer left, and regardless, he was already finished with the bottle. Henry stood up, trying to judge that, despite the poor quality of the alcohol, he was alright to drive. 'it doesn't really matter either way does it' he thought, 'If I wreck the car and die, I'll just wake up in Hell.' 'Of course' he went on, 'it would be a little awkward to explain to the foreman down at the plant about why I wouldn't be able to come into work tomorrow.'
His spine ran cold at the thought of upsetting the man. Even though the man was in wheel chair, with no legs, he was still an intimidating person, and he and Henry often didn't see eye-to-eye. The first week on the job, the foreman had decided that Henry required a little 'attitude adjustment', which amounted to him shouting at him in front of the whole factory. Henry's face still burned with embarrassment and hatred from that incident.
Henry walked out towards his car. It wasn't anything too fancy, a 2001 model Chevy. Before the the war on Hell and Heaven, he had owned a 2002 Camaro, one of the last off the assembly line. But after all vehicle plants started to convert to produce the various weapons needed to fight the war, it had quickly became apparent that keeping such a high-end car would be unwise.
He turned the keys slowly, the car started with a sputter and then quickly died out. "Aw fuck" he shouted, "what the fuck?". Henry looked at the various gauges in front of him and noticed that the gas meter had dropped below E, 'it wasn't there when I went in to the fucking bar, dammit'. Looking in the side view mirror, he noticed something wrong on the side of the car. "My life is not this bad" he cried out. Sure enough, the side of his car had several scratches and dents, all circling around the bent and pried open cover to the gasoline nozzle.
"shit...fuck, goddammit". The last curse was more of a reflexive reaction than a willed one. 'But it sure fills the description neatly' he thought to himself. Ever since the message, Henry had finally found the reason for all his bad luck; people not liking him, never getting any favors, his lack of luck with women. All of this was clear evidence to Henry that god was conspiring against him all along.
He reached into his car, lifting the small handle that popped open the trunk and walked around to the back of the car, pulling out a small 1/2-gallon gas can. It wasn't particularly good gas, he had siphoned it out of his neighbors lawnmower the other week, in case of emergencies. 'It's not like that stupid bastard was using it, his fucking yard is always overgrown' he thought, loathing the fact that he had to share a neighborhood with such people.
He quickly emptied the contents of the can into the gas tank, and proceeded to toss the can back into the trunk. Henry eyed the still-bent cover with a suspicious eye, wondering if it would be dangerous with the gas tank exposed, but decided that there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. He quickly scooted himself back into the driver's seat and restarted the car. As Henry pulled out of the parking spot, he realized that he had lost his buzz.
The Great Pit, outskirts of the eighth circle
The great road that led from the city of Dis to the center of the Hellpit was ancient, far more ancient than any road on earth. Existing for untold millennium, the road had serviced the armies and purposes of Hell's master, Satan.
Of course, now that Satan was dead, the road had begun to fall into disrepair. During Satan's reign, the road had been constantly patrolled and kept by a legion of demons, and several thousand special human slaves. The demons had long-since returned to their homes and mates, and the human slaves had either dispersed across the pit, or trekked to Dis, to be liberated by the ever-advancing forces of the H.E.A.
Holes now riddled the highway, with entire sections becoming reclaimed by the native fauna. Several demon and human bands wandered the great road, attempting to rob the merchants that frequently used the road to reach the city of Dis and its subsidiaries. It was because of this that the job of the 13th Panzergrenadier Division was made all the more difficult.
Originally part of Fifth Army Group, Germany's permanent contribution to the Human Expeditionary Army had recently been transferred and was now the Reserve Corps for Second Army Group. With military operations stalled waiting on the breakthrough into Heaven, the Division was currently serving as one of the many units sent out to liberate the deceased from Hell. This job was less monumental than it sounded, of course. With the river Styx and its surrounding swamps in process of being drained and scoured for humans, and with mostly all of the human slaves owned by the demons set free; it had become an increasingly easy detail.
Advancing along the highway, a large convoy was picking its way through the multitude of potholes that covered the derelict road. At the front of the convoy, two Marder IFV's were quickly covering the damaged road, their suspension systems easily absorbing the shock. Behind them, seven Fennek LGS' were attempting to navigate the road more cautiously, the drivers inflating and deflating the tires as they crossed particularly deep potholes.
Sgt. Wolfgang Jäger was attempting to quickly manage the tire pressure so as to give the vehicle maximum stability, mindful of the work of the man in the passenger seat next to him. The Fennek was designed to go over rough terrain, having been in use by the Bundeswehr in Afghanistan for several years as a reconnaissance vehicle. The vehicles bumping along the great road were not on a reconnaissance mission though. This area was under constant surveillance by unmanned aircraft and had been for several days in advance of the convoy.
The divisional engineer battalion, the 803rd Armoured Engineer Battalion, was assigned to helping the rescue teams clear the Hellpit of human dead. They had already spent weeks clearing out the 7th circle. That job was far from over, as the rescue teams had only been able to clear the area of the circle closest to human occupied territory, leaving most of the entire 7th circle untouched for the time being.
The reason for the 803rds premature advance into the 8th circle was to guarantee the security of the rescue teams working in the 7th circle. The 8th was unoccupied and could be used as a base for renegade daemons. That meant the H.E.A needed to either surround the seventh to provide a secure perimeter, or move into the eighth at once. H.E.A Command had decided on the latter action, justifying that if they were going to expend the resources to secure the 7th circle, they may as well occupy the smaller 8th instead.
The task was not particularly daunting; the H.E.A already had a force in the area, in the form of the puppet demon state, to help them with the process. However, the commanders of the H.E.A were not stupid enough to trust the demons to free the humans that they had for so long tormented, nor did they trust the liberated humans to not immediately attack the demons.
That was why several of the H.E.A's mechanized engineer units were moving into the 8th circle, to attempt to prevent any hostilities while still freeing the dead humans. the 13th Panzergrenadiers was the first unit to go in, however, as it was one of the most well-equipped for this sort of work, due to the divisions service in Afghanistan.
The man sitting next to Wolfgang was not from the 13th, the patches on his uniformed marked him as a Colonel from the United States. The Colonel was quietly going over several aerial photos that had been taken of the area, marked with the locations of villages and castles, as well as concentrations of humans. The demons had been most helpful in mapping out the several circles of hell, having lived in Hell for several Millennium, their intricate knowledge of the terrain was essential for the forces of the H.E.A to advance safely.
Wolfgang knew how necessary the knowledge of terrain was to the success of any military action, which was why he was being very careful not to allow the armored car to shake. He knew better than to interrupt a superior officer whilst he was working, but Wolfgang was overcome by curiosity, curiosity and the need to know what he should expect.
"What might we expect from this area, Colonel?"
The colonel quickly tore his eyes from the photographs, giving Wolfgang a short stare that made him regret asking. But the Colonel quickly began to gaze out of the window, looking past the dirt being kicked up by the vehicles in front of them to observe the surrounding territory.
"Intel suggests that their is still some resistance in the 8th circle. The major daemon lord, Malacoda I believe, has refused to acknowledge President Abigor as sovereign. The demons say that he doesn't have much in the way of troops, most of his legions were in the fight at the Phlegathon"
Wolfgang shuddered a bit at the mention of the battle, the 13th had been held in reserve during the entire battle, but when it was over and the H.E.A had advanced, their unit had been the first to cross the battlefield. Wolfgang could still feel the crunch of demon bones under his tires resonating through his vehicles frame.
"So what are we to do after we establish a base of operations?" he asked.
The Colonel gave Wolfgang another quick stare before returning his gaze to the photos. "Orders are to advance throughout the circle, if we encounter any resistance from this Malacoda fellow, were to blow him half-way across hell"
The Colonel finished with a disturbing grin and a small chuckle at his own joke. Another shudder hit Wolfgang, who returned his attentions to the road, attempting to concentrate on driving.
Chicago, Illinois. 7:45 PM, January 3rd 2008
Henry Randolph considered himself to be a rational, reasonable man. In fact, he even felt that given the overall situation he was behaving beyond what could be reasonably expected for a twenty-four year old man. But despite all the reasoning he could conjure, he still felt very, very angry as he passed over the last beer voucher in his possession.
'At any other time in history' Henry thought, 'the rationing of liquor would have been utterly inconceivable. Only during the time of prohibition has such a terror haunted the dreams of man'. And yet, here he sat, on an old stool in an even older bar, barely even buzzed, and with only one bottle of cheap beer in front of him for the rest of the month.
'Truly,' Henry thought grimly 'this is just the start of the decay of our society'. Randolph had been avidly, or at least as avidly as he could, pursuing a degree in social philosophy. Unfortunately, the U.S Army did not think that that was an important field, or at least important enough to sacrifice an able young man. They hadn't drafted him, not yet, but pulling a straight seven-hour shift at a local plant that made parts for Abrams tanks was no walk in the park.
'This damn war has changed too much; I can't even begin to imagine what the next generation is going to be like' he thought, taking a small sip from his last Coors. 'And the beer tastes like horse piss nowadays, I can't even get a fucking Samuel Adams!'
Fate had not shone kindly on Henry these last few months. Having finally made it to college, he had been two-and-a-half years into his schooling when the message had arrived. 'and now, now I'm just another piss-ant plebe in the eyes of the world'
Fate had never truly shown kindly on him. It had only been in his last two years of high-school that he had made straight A's, mostly due to the hired tutors who had done most of the work for him. The grades were good enough to get him a scholarship to go to to the University of Illinois, It hadn't hurt that his parents happened to be benefactors of that particular college, but Henry was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
'Except now that motherfucking horse has kicked me in the face'. Henry was almost done with the Coors, despite his best efforts to make it last longer. The man behind the bar was giving him sharp looks every few moments, almost trying to subconsciously tell Henry that once he had finished his last beer, he'd better get lost. Henry simply glared back with what he surmised to be a mean look.
'How the fuck does a place like this even stay open?' Despite the rationing of food and other products, the local bars were still managing to get by quite well. 'I wouldn't be surprised if they were using the Prohibition-era tunnels to sneak in cheap booze, and that may very well explain the flavor of this shitty beer'.
The point was moot, Henry reasoned. He doubted anyone else in Chicago had any decent beer left, and regardless, he was already finished with the bottle. Henry stood up, trying to judge that, despite the poor quality of the alcohol, he was alright to drive. 'it doesn't really matter either way does it' he thought, 'If I wreck the car and die, I'll just wake up in Hell.' 'Of course' he went on, 'it would be a little awkward to explain to the foreman down at the plant about why I wouldn't be able to come into work tomorrow.'
His spine ran cold at the thought of upsetting the man. Even though the man was in wheel chair, with no legs, he was still an intimidating person, and he and Henry often didn't see eye-to-eye. The first week on the job, the foreman had decided that Henry required a little 'attitude adjustment', which amounted to him shouting at him in front of the whole factory. Henry's face still burned with embarrassment and hatred from that incident.
Henry walked out towards his car. It wasn't anything too fancy, a 2001 model Chevy. Before the the war on Hell and Heaven, he had owned a 2002 Camaro, one of the last off the assembly line. But after all vehicle plants started to convert to produce the various weapons needed to fight the war, it had quickly became apparent that keeping such a high-end car would be unwise.
He turned the keys slowly, the car started with a sputter and then quickly died out. "Aw fuck" he shouted, "what the fuck?". Henry looked at the various gauges in front of him and noticed that the gas meter had dropped below E, 'it wasn't there when I went in to the fucking bar, dammit'. Looking in the side view mirror, he noticed something wrong on the side of the car. "My life is not this bad" he cried out. Sure enough, the side of his car had several scratches and dents, all circling around the bent and pried open cover to the gasoline nozzle.
"shit...fuck, goddammit". The last curse was more of a reflexive reaction than a willed one. 'But it sure fills the description neatly' he thought to himself. Ever since the message, Henry had finally found the reason for all his bad luck; people not liking him, never getting any favors, his lack of luck with women. All of this was clear evidence to Henry that god was conspiring against him all along.
He reached into his car, lifting the small handle that popped open the trunk and walked around to the back of the car, pulling out a small 1/2-gallon gas can. It wasn't particularly good gas, he had siphoned it out of his neighbors lawnmower the other week, in case of emergencies. 'It's not like that stupid bastard was using it, his fucking yard is always overgrown' he thought, loathing the fact that he had to share a neighborhood with such people.
He quickly emptied the contents of the can into the gas tank, and proceeded to toss the can back into the trunk. Henry eyed the still-bent cover with a suspicious eye, wondering if it would be dangerous with the gas tank exposed, but decided that there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. He quickly scooted himself back into the driver's seat and restarted the car. As Henry pulled out of the parking spot, he realized that he had lost his buzz.
The Great Pit, outskirts of the eighth circle
The great road that led from the city of Dis to the center of the Hellpit was ancient, far more ancient than any road on earth. Existing for untold millennium, the road had serviced the armies and purposes of Hell's master, Satan.
Of course, now that Satan was dead, the road had begun to fall into disrepair. During Satan's reign, the road had been constantly patrolled and kept by a legion of demons, and several thousand special human slaves. The demons had long-since returned to their homes and mates, and the human slaves had either dispersed across the pit, or trekked to Dis, to be liberated by the ever-advancing forces of the H.E.A.
Holes now riddled the highway, with entire sections becoming reclaimed by the native fauna. Several demon and human bands wandered the great road, attempting to rob the merchants that frequently used the road to reach the city of Dis and its subsidiaries. It was because of this that the job of the 13th Panzergrenadier Division was made all the more difficult.
Originally part of Fifth Army Group, Germany's permanent contribution to the Human Expeditionary Army had recently been transferred and was now the Reserve Corps for Second Army Group. With military operations stalled waiting on the breakthrough into Heaven, the Division was currently serving as one of the many units sent out to liberate the deceased from Hell. This job was less monumental than it sounded, of course. With the river Styx and its surrounding swamps in process of being drained and scoured for humans, and with mostly all of the human slaves owned by the demons set free; it had become an increasingly easy detail.
Advancing along the highway, a large convoy was picking its way through the multitude of potholes that covered the derelict road. At the front of the convoy, two Marder IFV's were quickly covering the damaged road, their suspension systems easily absorbing the shock. Behind them, seven Fennek LGS' were attempting to navigate the road more cautiously, the drivers inflating and deflating the tires as they crossed particularly deep potholes.
Sgt. Wolfgang Jäger was attempting to quickly manage the tire pressure so as to give the vehicle maximum stability, mindful of the work of the man in the passenger seat next to him. The Fennek was designed to go over rough terrain, having been in use by the Bundeswehr in Afghanistan for several years as a reconnaissance vehicle. The vehicles bumping along the great road were not on a reconnaissance mission though. This area was under constant surveillance by unmanned aircraft and had been for several days in advance of the convoy.
The divisional engineer battalion, the 803rd Armoured Engineer Battalion, was assigned to helping the rescue teams clear the Hellpit of human dead. They had already spent weeks clearing out the 7th circle. That job was far from over, as the rescue teams had only been able to clear the area of the circle closest to human occupied territory, leaving most of the entire 7th circle untouched for the time being.
The reason for the 803rds premature advance into the 8th circle was to guarantee the security of the rescue teams working in the 7th circle. The 8th was unoccupied and could be used as a base for renegade daemons. That meant the H.E.A needed to either surround the seventh to provide a secure perimeter, or move into the eighth at once. H.E.A Command had decided on the latter action, justifying that if they were going to expend the resources to secure the 7th circle, they may as well occupy the smaller 8th instead.
The task was not particularly daunting; the H.E.A already had a force in the area, in the form of the puppet demon state, to help them with the process. However, the commanders of the H.E.A were not stupid enough to trust the demons to free the humans that they had for so long tormented, nor did they trust the liberated humans to not immediately attack the demons.
That was why several of the H.E.A's mechanized engineer units were moving into the 8th circle, to attempt to prevent any hostilities while still freeing the dead humans. the 13th Panzergrenadiers was the first unit to go in, however, as it was one of the most well-equipped for this sort of work, due to the divisions service in Afghanistan.
The man sitting next to Wolfgang was not from the 13th, the patches on his uniformed marked him as a Colonel from the United States. The Colonel was quietly going over several aerial photos that had been taken of the area, marked with the locations of villages and castles, as well as concentrations of humans. The demons had been most helpful in mapping out the several circles of hell, having lived in Hell for several Millennium, their intricate knowledge of the terrain was essential for the forces of the H.E.A to advance safely.
Wolfgang knew how necessary the knowledge of terrain was to the success of any military action, which was why he was being very careful not to allow the armored car to shake. He knew better than to interrupt a superior officer whilst he was working, but Wolfgang was overcome by curiosity, curiosity and the need to know what he should expect.
"What might we expect from this area, Colonel?"
The colonel quickly tore his eyes from the photographs, giving Wolfgang a short stare that made him regret asking. But the Colonel quickly began to gaze out of the window, looking past the dirt being kicked up by the vehicles in front of them to observe the surrounding territory.
"Intel suggests that their is still some resistance in the 8th circle. The major daemon lord, Malacoda I believe, has refused to acknowledge President Abigor as sovereign. The demons say that he doesn't have much in the way of troops, most of his legions were in the fight at the Phlegathon"
Wolfgang shuddered a bit at the mention of the battle, the 13th had been held in reserve during the entire battle, but when it was over and the H.E.A had advanced, their unit had been the first to cross the battlefield. Wolfgang could still feel the crunch of demon bones under his tires resonating through his vehicles frame.
"So what are we to do after we establish a base of operations?" he asked.
The Colonel gave Wolfgang another quick stare before returning his gaze to the photos. "Orders are to advance throughout the circle, if we encounter any resistance from this Malacoda fellow, were to blow him half-way across hell"
The Colonel finished with a disturbing grin and a small chuckle at his own joke. Another shudder hit Wolfgang, who returned his attentions to the road, attempting to concentrate on driving.