Where The Ground Trembles

Blood Flows At Antietam - 06

Davis slowly rose to his feet, legs trembling beneath him as he surveyed the scene. The demon's massive body lay crumpled in the ravine, smoke curling from the gaping wound the explosion had torn into its chest. Its once-burning red eyes were now dim, lifeless, but even in death, the thing looked like it had come from some ancient nightmare.

He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, still catching his breath. The men around him were silent, their expressions a mix of shock and grim relief. Richardson stood nearby, staring at the demon's corpse as if he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

"That... was close," Richardson muttered, voice shaky but steadying. "Never seen anything like it. Not in this world."

"No one has," Davis replied, his voice low. He glanced down at Whitlock, who lay on the ground beside him, still pale and breathing heavily from the pain in his leg. "We need to get him out of here."

Richardson nodded. "We can't stay. That blast will have drawn attention from more than just the Rebs. If there are more of these things—"

"There will be," Davis interrupted, his gaze narrowing as he glanced back toward the forest. "That was just the first wave."

He could feel it in his bones. Whatever had come through those rifts wasn't done yet. The air still had that unnatural heaviness to it, the distant growls and crashes suggesting more horrors were lurking in the woods, just out of sight. The rumbling from earlier hadn't stopped completely; it was just quieter now, like something was shifting underground.

Davis knelt beside Whitlock, pulling the younger man's arm over his shoulder. "On three. Ready?" he asked, though there was no time for a real answer. He counted off anyway, lifting Whitlock up as carefully as he could without jarring his injured leg.

Whitlock grunted in pain, but managed to stand with Davis's support. "I'll make it," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Just... keep me on my feet."

Davis gave a curt nod. "You'll be fine, Jimmy. Just hold on."

The men regrouped, moving swiftly through the thick underbrush, leaving the smoldering remains of the demon behind. The ravine offered some shelter, but it wouldn't protect them for long. They needed to get back to their unit, to regroup with Dawson and the others—if there were others left to regroup with.

As they trudged through the mud and twisted roots, Richardson kept his voice low, his eyes darting nervously around the trees. "We can't be the only ones who saw that. You think the Rebs are seeing the same thing on their side?"

Davis wasn't sure. He hadn't seen any signs of the Confederates during the chaos, but that didn't mean they weren't out there, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Still, the demons were unlike anything either side had expected.

"We'll find out soon enough," Davis said grimly. "But right now, our problem's these things. Not the Rebs."

Ahead of them, the forest began to thin, and Davis could hear the distant sounds of voices—Union soldiers. He felt a wave of relief wash over him, though it was quickly tempered by the knowledge of what was still out there.

They broke through the treeline to find Dawson standing near the edge of a small clearing, his face pale as he barked orders to the remaining men. There were fewer of them now—dozens fewer—and Davis could see the weariness in their eyes.

"Corporal!" Dawson called out as he spotted them, striding over with quick steps. His eyes flickered down to Whitlock, assessing his condition before locking onto Davis. "What the hell happened out there?"

"Demons," Davis said bluntly. "We took one down, but there are more."

Dawson's jaw clenched, his face tightening. "I've heard reports from other units about... strange sightings, but I didn't want to believe it. Hell, I still don't want to. But here we are."

"We're not fighting just the Rebs anymore, sir," Richardson added, his voice low. "These things... they're not like anything we've ever seen. Not bullets, not knives—nothing stops 'em unless you hit 'em hard enough to tear 'em apart."

Dawson ran a hand through his disheveled hair, staring off toward the horizon where the rift had first appeared. "I'll get word to the other officers. Whatever this is, we need to be prepared."

"Prepared for what?" Davis asked, his voice carrying a hard edge. "There's no preparing for this. We just fight to stay alive, one minute at a time."

Dawson looked back at him, something like resignation in his eyes. "Then we fight."

Before anyone could respond, a low, familiar rumbling filled the air again, vibrating through the earth beneath their feet. It was coming from the rift once more—distant, but growing louder.

And this time, the growls weren't alone.

The sound of horns echoed through the valley, faint at first, but unmistakable. Deep, guttural war horns, unlike anything Davis had ever heard. The demons were organizing.

"Get the men ready!" Dawson shouted, snapping into action. "If we don't hold this line, there's no telling how far they'll spread. We can't let them reach the rest of the army."

Davis exchanged a grim look with Richardson, then tightened his grip on his rifle.

The battle wasn't over. It was only just beginning.