Where The Ground Trembles

Blood Flows At Antietam - Final

Davis awoke to the muffled sounds of distant cannon fire and the clinking of metal. His head throbbed with pain, his vision blurred as he blinked against the dim light. He tried to sit up, but his body felt heavy, sluggish. The familiar scent of antiseptic and blood hit his nose, and he realized where he was: a field hospital.

The sounds around him came into sharper focus—the groans of wounded men, the hurried footsteps of nurses, the occasional bark of an officer giving orders. Davis groaned, trying to shake the disorientation. His hand instinctively went to his head, and he felt the thick bandage wrapped around it.

"Easy, Corporal," came a voice beside him. Davis turned his head, wincing at the movement, and saw a nurse standing over him, her face worn with fatigue but calm. "You took quite a hit. You're lucky to be alive."

"What... happened?" Davis managed to ask, his voice barely more than a rasp.

"You were brought in a few hours ago," she said, gently pushing him back down when he tried to sit up again. "You were unconscious. Your men found you after the battle—they said you got caught in an explosion."

Davis's memory was a blur—flashes of the battle, the rift, the demons—but nothing concrete. "Where's Whitlock?" he asked, his throat dry.

The nurse shook her head, her expression softening. "I don't know names, but there are more wounded in the next tent. You should rest."

Rest. It sounded like a joke. Davis tried to make sense of it all, but the pain in his head was too much. He closed his eyes, trying to recall those final moments before everything went black, but all he could remember was the flash of that eerie, unnatural light, and the feeling of the ground splitting beneath his feet.

He drifted in and out of sleep, the sounds of the hospital blending with his feverish dreams.

The haze of sleep clung to Davis as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Faces flashed through his mind—Whitlock, Dawson, the men he'd fought beside—but everything was distant, like a dream he couldn't fully grasp. The pain in his head was constant, dull but persistent, grounding him just enough to keep him aware of where he was.

Sometime later—he wasn't sure how long—the flap of the tent rustled, and footsteps approached his cot. Davis opened his eyes, squinting against the dim light, and saw Sergeant Richardson standing over him. His face was grim, the lines of exhaustion and battle etched deep into his weathered features.

"Corporal," Richardson said, his voice rough but steady. "Heard you were back with us."

Davis pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing as the effort sent a wave of dizziness through him. "Barely," he muttered. "What the hell happened out there?"

Richardson glanced around, making sure no one else was within earshot, then sat down on the edge of the cot. "You don't remember?"

"Bits and pieces," Davis admitted. "The ridge... those things coming through the ground."

The sergeant's jaw tightened. "Yeah. It wasn't just us fighting that day. Something tore open behind the lines. Don't know if it was an earthquake, or..." He paused, his voice dropping. "Some of the boys are saying it's a gate to hell."

Davis stared at him, trying to process what he was hearing. The things he'd seen before he got knocked out—the unnatural figures, the ground splitting open, the air itself seeming to burn—they weren't just the delusions of a head injury.

"How bad was it?" Davis asked.

Richardson exhaled slowly, the weight of it heavy in his eyes. "Bad. Worse than anything we've seen. Those things—those demons—they tore through our lines, took out half of what we had. Most of the officers are gone. Dawson... didn't make it."

Davis felt a pit form in his stomach. Dawson had been young, green to command, but he had heart. "What about Whitlock? Did you see him?"

The sergeant shook his head. "No sign of him. Could be he's with another unit or..." He trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.

Davis closed his eyes, trying to shove down the knot of fear and guilt that tightened in his chest. He'd told Whitlock to stick close, to stay alive. Now, he didn't even know if the kid had made it out.

"There's talk going around," Richardson continued. "Word from the higher-ups is that they're trying to figure out what those things were, and how they got here. But no one's saying much. Just that we're regrouping."

Davis nodded, the throbbing in his head a constant reminder of how close he'd come to not making it back at all. "So what now?" he asked, his voice rough.

"We march again soon," Richardson said, standing up. "Orders came down that we're pulling back for now, but it won't be long before they send us back in."

"Back in?" Davis repeated, his stomach churning at the thought of facing those creatures again. "They expect us to go back into that?"

The sergeant's eyes hardened. "That's war, Corporal. We don't get a choice."

Davis didn't argue. He knew Richardson was right.

"Rest up while you can," Richardson said, his voice softening just slightly. "You're gonna need it."

As the sergeant walked away, Davis lay back against the cot, staring up at the canvas ceiling of the tent. Outside, the sounds of the wounded and dying filled the air, mixing with the distant rumble of artillery and the cries of men preparing for the next battle.

He closed his eyes, but the visions of the demons, of the ground splitting open, of the men who hadn't made it—all of it came rushing back. There was no escaping it, no turning back from whatever they'd unleashed.