Of Men and War


    Out of all the places he had hidden before, this was undoubtedly the worst. Grey crumbling bricks, holding together despite the lack of cement, seemed to mock his predicament. Their structure rose barely over his crouched figure, casting a holed shadow over him. If not for the lashing rain and the shroud of night, Milo would have been caught long ago.


    Through a crack in the stone, he observed the camp’s frenzied activity, alive with the bellows of strange men.


    He could only admire the confidence they exuded. They seemed not to fear the darkness nor what lurked within it. They were safe. Protected by the security of a roaring fire that teased him with a warmth he longed for.


    Flames writhed against the air, stretching towards freedom before retreating in puffs of smoke. It, too, could not escape. The blaze was forced to lick the surface of a blackened cooking pot; the scent of meat rising from it made his mouth water. But tonight, there would be no distraction. His friend was in dire need.


    Dog had been bound to a stump, tethered tightly with a coarse rope to one of its mechanical ankles. It fought and wiggled, every motion a desperate attempt to break free. But the struggle only seemed to delight its captors; their laughter rose in the storm, blending with the wind’s howl.


    They were so at odds with his own feelings that it filled Milo with a strange sensation. They were almost mocking his silence. Impulsively, his fingers clutched a rough stone. Anger burned with the fire’s intensity inside his chest, and he wanted nothing more than to strike them. As any hero would.


    But Milo could not be a hero yet. Until then, he could scarcely do what he usually did.


    Hide.


    <hr>


    From the relative safety of his hiding spot, Milo plotted. Charting the patrollers'' routes as they watched over the camp’s perimeter, making their way around the remains of houses. Boots squelched in the mud around him, emerging from behind a wall or a tree in steady intervals. I’ll find a way to you, Dog…


    Near the fire, others were huddled over steaming bowls of stew, slurping and crunching — only interrupting their buffet to exchange jokes he couldn’t quite piece together. Snippets floated over the storm: boasts of strength, tales of their feats. Debates that veered into yelling contests.


    Milo’s nose wrinkled. Their games were not as fun as his. Yet, even as unease crept inside him, curiosity rooted him in place. He’d never had such an opportunity to watch the lives of scavengers so closely. With unusual patience, he watched and listened. Absorbing their routines. Bidding his time.


    Silence eventually fell over the men, and one of them broke it as quickly.


    “Always us stuck with the dirty work,” grumbled a man whose gut strained against the seams of his coat. He scratched at the patchy remains of a beard and cast a mean look at the downpour. “Why don’t they come out and patrol the wasteland themselves? See if they can last more than a day out here.”


    A muscular woman atop a crumbled wall swung her legs lazily. “You know damn well they can’t come out.” Her tone carried an edge of amusement as if the thought entertained her. “Besides, they pay us good enough.”


    “As long as we do our jobs,” chimed in a slim man with hair that spilt over his shoulders and a weird, crooked top hat. His voice was high and piercing, like a whistle. “And if we do it too well, one day, they won’t need us anymore. You know it as well as I do, Keira.”


    From her perch, the woman gave a low chuckle, tipping her head back towards the rain. “Sure. But the day this city’s rid of any inconvenience and the Crannies of all their problems? I’ll gladly admit I was wrong.”


    Milo crouched closer, peering through the holed rocks. He had never seen someone like her before. Admittedly, he didn’t encounter girls very often anyway. But through the firelight, he caught glimpses of her: wavy hair saved from the rain by a wide hood, dark skin warm despite the cold backdrop of ruins. She didn’t look like the others — not just in appearance — there was something softer in her face, a gaze almost… kind.


    The thought made his chest tighten. She looked strong, stronger even than most of the scavengers in the camp, and he wondered if her arms were any good at giving hugs. He figured they were.


    No distractions.


    The booming voice came again. “They oughta pay us better, I tell ya! Spreadin’ us too thin like butter on burnt toast.” With each word he uttered came a splash of spit; Milo found himself content he wasn’t closer. “We gotta deal with them rotskins. And fend off the redscarfs! Now they want us babysittin’ on top of it?”


    Keira replied instantly, her voice calm but firm. “The Children are of no importance. They merely scrawl their little symbols and scatter their traps, pretending they matter. But once we catch a few, they’ll stop being relevant.” She tilted her head towards the big man, dark eyes gleaming. “As for the girl, we need only find her. Then it’s their problem.”


    Children. The word echoed through Milo’s mind. He initially thought of himself — small, alone and hidden in the city''s folds, a sparrow clinging to the eaves. But she didn’t seem to mean that. Could there really be other children? Were they like him? No, Keira’s disdainful tone implied something else.


    He wondered what they could have done to earn the scorn of people like her. A flicker of unease crawled up his spine. He thought of the graffiti he’d often seen across old walls. What did they mean? Why would they leave traps? For the scavengers, or for something other?


    The stew of questions churned inside him. His curiosity had been lit, a spark waiting to catch. And it had only just begun.


    The hat man’s voice interrupted Milo’s thoughts with a scoff. “Winters are less and less cold. Moving around won’t be as easy as it used to be. The rotskins enter dormancy less often, and it is growing delicate. Even more so than before.” He paused, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “You heard the rumours about the division in sector four a few hours ago?”


    The big man barked back. “You mean the explosion? ‘Snot a rumour, and everybody’s talkin’ about it. I heard the streets are filled with the slimy bastards now.” His shoulders shook, and he muttered. “Makes my skin crawl just thinkin’ about it…”


    “Can you guys shut up and stop whining for a second!” The voice erupted from a dimly lit corner. “I’m trying to finish my meal in peace.” The light barely exposed his face. A face streaked with a scar.


    Milo’s heart thumped in his chest. This is him. The man who had captured Dog. It was as though that face had been carved into his memory in a scar of his own. He tried to get a better look at him, moving across the wall to find the right angle.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    His foot slipped on the slick earth, and he pitched forward. Panic shot through him as he caught himself against the wall, but the impact sent a loose brick tumbling to the other side.


    The sound was deafening when it hit a puddle.


    The group by the fire snapped their heads in unison, hands instinctively reaching for their weapon.


    Stupid. Milo pushed his back against the wall, hiding in the deepest shadow. Maybe they wouldn’t come. Perhaps they’d dismiss it as an animal or a trick of the weather. But he knew better.


    “I’ll go get a look while you lot finish your precious little meal.” A thump came as Keira dropped from the wall, and then he heard footsteps in the mud. Milo’s mind raced, tumbling through plans that led nowhere. If I move, they’ll see me. The patrollers were out there, circling, and she was closing in. He could only hope. But for what?


    An orange light flew over him. Keira stood steps away from the wall.


    Then, almost as an answer to his silent plea, a shout split the air


    “MOVEMENT TO THE SOUTH!”


    Milo’s eyes darted towards the source of the sound, careful not to make another noise. Across the veil of rain stood a wiry figure on a heap of rubble, squinting into obscurity. Weapons were drawn in an instant. Patrollers interrupted their paths and started converging, their movements sharp and mechanical — pieces in a game to which he didn’t know the rules.


    The big man’s low and wary voice cut through the silence. “Rotskins?”


    “They shouldn’t be this deep in our territory,” Keira answered, listening intently to the sound of the rain, her focus so deep it was as if she could pull answers from the storm itself.


    Milo’s gut whispered what he already knew: this would end badly. The scavengers might have their fires and weapons, but the camp was no fortress. He knew it from all the fantasy books he had read. There was no more safety — not for them, and definitely not for him.


    Still, this could be the distraction he needed.


    Keira was the first to react, her sharp eyes narrowing as she scanned the camp’s edge. Torchlight flickered erratically through the camp, twisting the silhouette of gnarled branches into clawing hands.


    “Anybody got a visual?” She barked without answer.


    Milo pressed his small frame tighter against the soaked wall. His heart pounded so fiercely it hurt. Whenever he believed nothing could scare him more, something new proved him wrong.


    The scavengers moved quickly despite the confusion, forming a defensive crescent around the campfire, their weapons glinting faintly in the dying light. In their haste, someone overturned the stew pot, spilling the contents onto the flames.


    “Fuckin’ hell!” A voice cracked while the fire hissed, steam rising in a ghostly plume.


    Then came the first scream.


    A raw, choking sound abruptly silenced as if snatched from the throat of its owner. Milo flinched, but he saw the group spin towards the southern edge of the camp, where the gloom seemed alive.


    “We need more torches!” The voice probably belonged to the hat man, cracking with growing unease, but Milo couldn’t be sure. Several scavengers fumbled for their bags, and sparks appeared across the camp like fireflies. But the rain fought them without pause.


    From the darkness, something heavy fell. Milo felt the vibration travel up through his fingers pressed against a rock. It’s close.


    A shape emerged briefly in the torchlight, long, spindly limbs gone in an instant.


    The vision burned in Milo’s vision. His inability to understand what he had just seen sent his mind into a funnel of fear. Yet he wasn’t alone in his terror. The scarred man clutched his blade, but his hands betrayed him — they trembled with each breath.


    He seemed so much weaker now.


    The fear was contagious, rippling through the camp like a sickness. And chaos soon erupted. One of them swung a crude axe into empty air, only to stagger backwards when a red-streaked figure shot past him. Another man stumbled near, clutching his side as crimson poured between his fingers — his eyes as hollow as the deer in Milo’s memory.


    The rain extinguished the remaining torches. One by one, the camp plunged into darkness. What little light remained came from dying embers and fleeting slivers of moonlight piercing the downpour. They illuminated the chaos in fragmented glimpses: Keira, teeth clenched, slashing at a figure that moved like smoke; the hat man flailing a whip at the emptiness; and the lookout, tumbling from his perch — his scream cut short by a wet crunch.


    Milo’s world became a spectacle of shouts and clashing metal. And beneath it all, a strange melody thrummed through the air — not a sound as much as a presence.


    He pressed his hands over his ears, desperate to drown it all out. Eyes squeezed shut, Milo tried to retreat into himself, into the remaining safe corner of his mind. But even in his usual embrace, the hum reached him, bypassing the barrier with reverberations born from the marrow of the earth itself.


    Hide, hide, don’t make a sound ~


    The familiar melody surfaced unbidden, almost synchronising with the turmoil.


    Close your eyes and count to ten ~


    Milo’s lashes fluttered open, and from his hiding spot, he could still see Dog thrashing violently — his white frame touched by the dim light of the fizzling campfire. Despite everything, Milo’s heart ached to free him. I have to help him.


    “We’re getting fucked out here!” Keira’s voice rose above all else. “Regroup! We need to fall back!” But it was futile. The shadows were alive, cutting the scavengers down like rain with torches. One by one.


    The hum persisted; it seemed to be coming from all around, from nowhere. And before long came a whisper, soft and melodic. It seeped into the night, weaving with the rain and the wind and the distant thunder. The language was foreign to Milo, but the rhythm was familiar — an echo of his own lullaby. But where his song shielded him, this one carried a warning. A call to surrender.


    The song grew louder, its twisting syllables stealing the breath from Milo’s chest. Yet his legs began moving before he would let his mind catch up. He had to reach Dog. Now.


    His companion had stilled, but the faint red glow of its sensors betrayed a focus on something he couldn’t see. Creeping from his hiding spot, Milo slipped into the murk. Shapes emerged in the fractured light, bodies reminding him of broken dolls in the rubble. Their limbs floated in pools of water darkened with a thick fluid. He picked his way around them, knowing better than to run. Don’t look. Keep moving.


    His hand instinctively brushed the texture of his cherry scarf as he got closer to Dog.


    Then, from somewhere came the crunch of boots.


    A figure seemed to rise from the earth, features carved by a fleeting light. The jagged scar running down his face carved a grotesque mask, and the eyes — one clouded, the other piercing — locked onto Milo.


    “Another one of you lurking about,” the man muttered as if they were the only two left. “Don’t go running for your mum now.”


    He took another step forward, the ground squelching beneath his weight.


    Milo would wake up any second now. He’d open his eyes and find himself safe in his makeshift bed. He would be able to move again and think again. Dog’s comforting hum would replace the horrible sound of the night. But the blade. It dripped with the storm and something darker. It drew his gaze, locking him in place. And he could only accept the reality.


    This wasn’t how he had imagined it. He had rehearsed this in his head countless times. From the moment the man had laid hands on Dog and every step of the way. From the forest trail to the camp. In each breath. Each moment. But now, nothing came. No sound. No bold move.


    Milo was no hero. He would never be. He was just a child.


    A flicker of movement came behind the man. With mesmerising grace, the folds of a scarlet cloak danced into the fray. For an instant, Milo glimpsed a striking mask with a single crimson eye painted on the brow.


    The figure struck without a sound, and the scarred man staggered, his axe clattering to the ground while his hand flew to his neck — fingers grasping at something already gone. His mismatched eyes grew wide with a look of terrible surprise before his knees buckled, and he collapsed into the mud.


    Another deer.


    The hero straightened, turning their guise towards Milo. His body still refused to move, and for a moment, they simply stared, deciding what to do with him. Music spilt from behind the mask — words too foreign for him to understand yet beautiful, and as quickly as they had arrived, the figure vanished, leaving the scene behind.


    Dog’s whirring snapped Milo out of his trance, and he desperately made his way to his companion.


    One of its legs was severely damaged, jerking uncontrollably. “Come on,” Milo whispered, his hands fumbling with the last bindings. There was no time to think nor savour the reunion. “We have to run!”


    They both stumbled towards the forest. Dog’s uneven gait thudded behind, its damaged leg dragging through the mud. Hold on, friend. I’ll get you fixed when we’re home. The camp quickly vanished behind the curtain of rain, its fate sealed in the cries of the fallen. Keira, the big man, and the one with the hat, they were nowhere now, swallowed by the storm and the dark.


    Milo didn’t look back. But somewhere behind him, in the drenched chaos left behind, his presence had awakened the attention of something desperate.


    ***