"Somebody shut her the hell up!" Private Sinclair screamed, voice nothing against the thunderous din. They all knew the situation was dire. None of them needed a fatally wounded eleven-year-old crying about it.
Most of their forces had been lost in the enemy's initial push. Several hours prior, reconnaissance had spotted a "small, staggering enemy battalion" on the outskirts of the town. The intelligence had proven disastrous for Sinclair's unit. The battalion had been a division--heavily-armed and decisively moving soldiers. Their aggressive strike had forced Sinclair and the others from the village, up a steep hill slick with mud which loomed over the town. They had managed to scrap some additional cover from mud and materials lugged from the war-torn hamlet. The village offered no vital lines of transportation, nor other aspect of strategic merit.
These things were all far from the front of Sinclair's mind as she clung to cover, the earth around shaking as it was pounded with artillery and small arms. She glanced around at the mud-speckled, pale faces of those to her sides. Looking down the line, she hastily counted twenty-some soldiers, herself included. Several wounded. Supplies extremely limited.
"I guess this is it," muttered the soldier beside Sinclair.
The Private recognized the soldier. Freiden. Sat with her head hung low, one hand steadying her helmet, other clutching her rifle.
Sinclair wished she could muster up some sort of inspiration, rally her fellow soldiers to a miracle, but no words seemed to amount to much at the moment. The explosions of incoming artillery shells worked their way closer and began to pummel the Earth on either side of their bunker. The rifle fire whistled overhead. She saw no reason to contradict Freiden. They were at their enemy's mercy.
The girls covered their heads as a nearby artillery hit spewed dirt and shrapnel into their cover.
Sinclair tried to ignore the tight feeling in her chest, the shallow cutting of her breath, the ice-cold chills shooting down her spine and the feeling of misfortune swelling within her guts.
She rolled over and drew the last magazine from her pack, hands trembling and cold. It certainly wasn't how she wanted to die, but there was no easy way out. Surrender didn't seem an option, and that would have to serve as motivation.
Taking a deep breath, Sinclair ejected the magazine from her rifle, double-checked to make sure the next magazine in her hand was full and clapped it shakily into the weapon's receiver. Bullets continued to scream past her head. Another explosion shook the ground. More dirt rained down on their position as Sinclair jacked the rifle's bolt back.
Please get me out of this.
"Return fi-re!" somebody down the line screamed. A shrill, barely audible voice.
Sinclair tried to convince herself that Freiden was wrong.
She rose to one knee and steadied her heavy firearm's stock. Her barrel cleared the top of the bunker. The village below was a hive of enemy movement. Sinclair's rifle panned the city below, letting out short bursts of fire towards the heavier concentrations of activity. Return fire spat dirt into her hands and face.
Before her magazine ran dry, a massive explosion bloomed mere feet from her. Sand and shrapnel exploded into the line of soldiers. Sinclair was thrown back several feet and knocked senseless. A wave of fiery pain and fatigue crashed against her body, and then there was nothing.
She rose to one knee and steadied her heavy firearm's stock. Her barrel cleared the top of the bunker. The village below was a hive of enemy movement. Sinclair's rifle panned the city below, letting out short bursts of fire towards the heavier concentrations of activity. Return fire spat dirt into her hands and face.
Before her magazine ran dry, a massive explosion bloomed mere feet from her. Sand and shrapnel exploded into the line of soldiers. Sinclair was thrown back several feet and knocked senseless. A wave of fiery pain and fatigue crashed against her body, and then there was nothing.