The World Of Steam

17

The war still carried on into the next day, the carnage spreading like a disease. But this time, it had evolved into a civil war. There were those that wanted to become a republic and those that wanted a new king to be crowned. London had been split into two parts. One territory was under the control of the loyalists, the other, the republicans. Barricades were built out of whatever the armies found. Chunks of concrete, old tables, old bricks stacked up into unstable walls. It was rudimentary, but it was still better than nothing. Both armies fired at each other from their trenches, popping their heads up from the barricades. Someone shouted out an order over the carnage and a small platoon jogged off and disappeared. The fight still raged on. Bullets flew about. Bodies fell. Both armies popped their heads out from their trenches once more, firing at one another aimlessly. They ducked back down again, reloading their weapons, shifting the bolts on their rifles. Suddenly, there came a loud rumbling and a giant, thirty foot war machine stomped its way into the fight. Steam hissed at it from all sides, the burning fuel from its gas furnace escaping. It stood on two iron legs with three rusted toes on each of them. Its iron fingers clinked and clanked as the republican controlling it from the inside checked if everything was in working order. The republicans all ducked their heads down into the trench, allowing the machine to pass by. The loyalists fired their weapons in a blaze. Bullets began to pelt the machine but they ricocheted off of it uselessly. It suddenly raised one of its legs and without hesitation, it stomped onto a platoon of its enemies, crushing them into the ground. An agonising display of blood gushed out from beneath its giant metal foot as it pulverised them. It picked up two loyalists and crushed them easily in its metal hands. It picked up another one and tore him into two pieces instantly, spraying blood and innards all over the ground. Another war machine charged in, its tracks trundling on the ground. Some of the loyalists tried to flee from it but were too slow as they were caught beneath its tracks, their skeletons broken into miniscule pieces. Its machine guns suddenly began to whir loudly as it sprayed them with a hail of bullets. The loyalists all jerked and jarred violently as they were peppered with lead, not given one chance to fight back. A third war machine arrived, firing a stream of fire towards its targets. They screamed in agony for a couple of seconds before collapsing to the ground, charred into nothing more than coal. Within a matter of mere seconds, thousands had already been killed. One of the loyalists lit a flamethrower and released a stream of fire onto one of the war machines, engulfing it in a furious blaze. Suddenly, it blew up, instantly killing the republicans inside. It released metal shards all over the place, impaling some of its combatants, despite being destroyed itself. The fight raged like a never ending storm, just waiting to see who would be victorious.

Doctors dashed around the makeshift hospitals, trying to treat the wounded and the dying. The patients laid on old, tattered blankets that had long since been eaten by moth larvae. But it was still better than dying on the cold hard ground. A doctor applied an ointment onto his patient as his wounds festered, darkening to the point that they were almost black. Another doctor injected propofol into his suffering patient's arm as he profusely bled from each wound, ruining the blanket. The entire place stunk of blood and medicine and the groans of the wounded people echoed throughout the entire building. An undertaker in a gas mask walked over to the giant crematorium chamber and pushed a body inside, leaving it without a coffin. He closed the door, secured the latch and turned the machine on. After everything that had happened to them, they at least deserved a proper send-off. Stepping over to another cremation chamber, he switched it off and opened the door. A tiny gust of wind blew through, scattering a tiny portion of the ashes around him. He picked up a metal broom that looked like a rake with its gaps missing and stuck it into the furnace. Placing it down onto the surface, he pulled back, scraping out all of the ashes in one simple movement, letting them fall through a long and thin slot. The ashes fell through the gap and into a funnel, tidily falling into an urn that laid beneath. Replacing the metal broom, he put a lid on top of the urn. He took it and put it onto a shelf, next to the other countless victims that awaited collection from their families. Turning around, he walked over to the giant pile of corpses that laid behind him.

The people sat in their trenches, fearing a random night attack. Some jumped at shadows from passing by night guards, scared out of their wits. Those five minutes of glory had quickly turned into days worth of horror. One woman curled up against the trench wall, covering herself with a blanket, shivering against the freezing air. The guards stood on the open battlefield, scoped rifles in their hands, scanning out for any threats. Survival in numbers was all that mattered now as the war moved on to its next stage. Who knew what type of brutalities were to occur? No one had any idea as to what they were going to face tomorrow. Their next battle could very well easily wipe them all out in a single swoop. They needed to muster up all of the strength that they had if they were to survive what was to come. A large cast iron pot of stew bubbled away, cooking over an open flame. The starving soldiers crowded around it, trying to at least gather some heat from the warm, crackling fire. One of them took a ladle and proceeded to pour the steaming stew into the metal bowls of the waiting people. As soon as their bowls were filled, one after the other, they instantly went to devour the meal like vultures. The chef scraped the last bit of stew into his bowl and looked down at it as a finger rose up onto the surface. He took it and looked at it sadly, but ate the flesh anyway.