Where The Ground Trembles

In The Shadow of Ashes - 01

After Richardson got to his feet, the flap opened again, and another familiar face peeked in—Ben Richards, a wiry, dark-haired soldier from Ohio, who always seemed to carry an easy smirk despite the war. His sharp nose and quick, darting eyes gave him a foxlike appearance. Ben had a way of keeping spirits up, always ready with a joke or a smart remark to cut through the tension.

"Look who finally decided to wake up," Ben said, grinning as he stepped inside. "Heard you took a good knock, Davis. Thought you were out for good."

"Not yet," Davis replied, though his voice was tired. "Not today."

Ben plopped down on the edge of the cot beside him, his usual grin softening. "You gonna make it, or do we need to carry you back out to the field?"

Davis snorted, shaking his head. "I'm good. Just give me a minute."

The banter felt good—familiar. For a moment, it almost felt like any other day in camp, before everything went to hell.

As the two men exchanged a few more words, Richardson moved to the tent's entrance, glancing back over his shoulder. "Get your rest, Davis. We'll need you soon enough."

Davis watched him go, then turned back to Ben, who was already launching into a story about one of the other guys in their unit sneaking extra rations. The story was light, and for a little while, Davis let himself forget the nightmares waiting beyond the next hill.

But no matter how hard he tried to push it aside, the image of the demons, the ground splitting open, and Whitlock's face stayed with him.

As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, casting a warm orange glow through the thin walls of the medical tent, Davis listened to Ben's story, only half-focused. His body was still sore, but the throbbing in his head had lessened. He picked at the bandage on his arm absentmindedly, though Ben's voice, upbeat as always, was doing more to ease the tension than anything the nurse had given him.

"...so then this dumb bastard trips over his own damn boots, drops all the rations, and next thing you know, he's face-first in the mud with Sergeant Green hollerin' at him about how he's gonna make him eat every last piece of it off the ground," Ben was saying, chuckling to himself.

Davis forced a smile, but his mind kept drifting. Whitlock's face kept flashing in his thoughts—the pale, nervous kid from Pennsylvania with brown hair that always looked a bit too long for army regulations, his soft features not yet hardened by the war. Davis couldn't shake the image of him standing frozen, wide-eyed, as those creatures emerged from the earth.

Ben must have noticed the distance in Davis's eyes because his voice lowered. "Hey, you alright?"

Davis blinked and shook his head, pulling himself back to the present. Ben Richards had always been hard to ignore, with his wiry frame and a face that seemed to carry a permanent smirk, even when he wasn't joking. His sandy hair stuck out from under his cap, disheveled and wild. No matter the situation, Ben had this unshakable energy about him that made him seem like he didn't belong in the muck of war.

"Just thinking," Davis muttered, leaning back against the cot.

Ben raised an eyebrow. "About Whitlock?"

Davis didn't respond right away, but Ben already knew. "They'll find him, you know. Kid's probably shacked up with some other unit. Scared shitless, sure, but he'll turn up."

Davis nodded, but it didn't ease the gnawing sensation in his gut. He had a bad feeling about the whole thing. Whitlock wasn't like some of the hardened men around them. He was young, with wide green eyes that always looked like they were seeing the horrors of war for the first time, even months into it. Whitlock had stuck close to him for a reason; the kid hadn't figured out how to survive on his own yet.

"Can't stop thinking about what we saw," Davis said quietly, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "What the hell were those things?"

Ben's smirk faded, and for a moment, his usual upbeat demeanor dropped. "Hell if I know," he said, his voice more serious than Davis had heard in a while. "But I'll tell you this—if we see 'em again, I ain't sticking around for a second look."

A nurse bustled by with a tray of bandages and salves, pausing briefly to check on Davis. "How's the head, Corporal?" she asked, her voice brisk but not unkind.

Davis shrugged. "Still attached, I guess."

She smiled faintly before moving on, leaving Davis and Ben in silence again.

"I'm telling you, Davis," Ben continued, lowering his voice now that the nurse had left, "there's talk going around. Not just about the demons or whatever they were. Some of the men are saying we ain't even fighting for the same reasons anymore."

"What do you mean?" Davis asked, narrowing his eyes.

Ben glanced around the tent, making sure no one else was listening. "It's like the higher-ups know something we don't. Like they've got a bigger picture in mind. These gates or rifts, whatever they are... they aren't just accidents. Someone, somewhere, wanted this."

Davis scoffed. "You sound like one of those conspiracy nuts."

"Maybe," Ben said, but the grin didn't return this time. "Or maybe I'm just paying attention."

Davis sighed, his mind still too weary to dive into whatever Ben was hinting at. But the unease lingered. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were being pushed toward something bigger than themselves—something they weren't prepared for.

Before Davis could say anything more, Sergeant Richardson stepped into the tent, his towering frame blocking the last rays of sunlight. His graying beard and short-cropped dark hair gave him a stern, no-nonsense look, but the deep scar running down his jaw softened his face into something more approachable, almost fatherly. The man had seen more battles than most of the men combined, and it showed in the heavy way he carried himself, each step weighted by years of fighting and loss.

"Davis," Richardson greeted, giving a curt nod. "Good to see you on your feet."

"Barely," Davis replied, sitting up straighter. "How's the unit?"

"Better than most," Richardson said, but his tone was grim. "A lot of boys didn't make it. A lot more are still missing." He paused, glancing at Ben before fixing his gaze back on Davis. "You're needed, Corporal. Word is they'll have us moving again soon. Command wants reports on survivors, supplies, anything we can pull together before we head back out."

"Back out?" Davis echoed, the weight of those two words hitting him hard.

"Aye," Richardson said. "We're pulling back for now, but we ain't done."

Davis wanted to argue, to say they needed more time, that they weren't ready to face whatever was waiting for them again, but he knew Richardson didn't make the decisions. The brass did, and they were always pushing them forward.

Richardson's sharp blue eyes lingered on Davis a moment longer, then softened. "Get some rest while you can, son," he said quietly before leaving the tent.

Davis leaned back against the cot again, exhaustion pulling at him like a tide. Ben muttered something about grabbing food and wandered off, leaving Davis alone with his thoughts. The low murmur of the camp buzzed around him—the sound of men trying to keep themselves busy, trying to forget for a moment what lay ahead.

But Davis couldn't forget. The ground had torn open in front of them, spewing out creatures that didn't belong on any battlefield. And now they were being asked to march back into it, as if they hadn't just faced something that shouldn't exist.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the distant sounds of the camp, trying to shut out the world. But in the darkness behind his eyelids, all he could see were the faces of the men he might never see again—their faces twisted in fear as the ground gave way beneath them.