The Rusted Epoch

Chapter 2

The night thickened as Anders paced down the length of the trench, his boots squelching in the mud. The rumble of artillery, though distant, never truly stopped. Between bursts of sound, the faint whirring of mechanisms rose and fell like a machine breathing in the dark. And though the night held steady, Anders felt time slipping through his fingers.

The men around him were shadows themselves, crouched low or pressed against the trench walls, eyes darting to the horizon where only the dim glow of flares offered glimpses of the no man's land beyond. Many of them looked exhausted, wearing the hollow-eyed faces of those who'd grown too accustomed to close calls. But now they faced something more brutal than artillery: Die Brechmaschine, that German steel leviathan, was rolling forward on a mission to crush the British line.

Anders stopped, gathering his men in the limited light of a makeshift lantern. The damp air was filled with smoke and a bitter, metallic scent—the remnants of previous battles lingered, mixing with the fresh, icy winds blowing down the trench. He cleared his throat, his voice carrying low but firm over the murmurs.

"Listen here, Men. We all know what we're up against tonight." He paused, searching their faces. Each of these men had stared death in the eye before, but he saw how the name Die Brechmaschine had cast a shadow even over the most seasoned of them. "Sure, the rumors are true. The Germans have sent their metal beast our way. But that's why we're here, isn't it?"

A few heads nodded, but their expressions remained wary. The hum of engines in the distance grew, steady and ominous, like the approach of a thunderstorm. Anders looked each of them in the eye, his gaze steady and hard.

"We didn't come here to die," he continued, his voice growing louder, infused with a steely resolve. "No, we came here to live—to push the line forward, to prove that no matter what they send our way, we are stronger. You've fought their soldiers, their cannons, and now, you'll stand firm against their machines. We've beaten them back time and time again. Tonight will be no different."

A murmur rippled through the men, a flicker of belief reigniting as they absorbed his words. Anders took a step closer, his voice dropping, yet each word sharp as a blade.

"When that thing rolls through, it's going to expect us to scatter. It's going to expect terror. But we'll meet it with fire, iron, and unbreakable resolve. We'll show them that no machine is mightier than the human spirit. That no force of metal and steel can crush what we have in us. Tonight, we fight for the men beside us, for the families we'll return to, for the life we'll all see after this war ends. And I swear to you, if we stand as one, if we hold together, we'll see the dawn, every last one of us."

Silence fell over the trench, each soldier straightening, eyes now lit with a faint spark of determination. They had little in the way of power against such a machine, but Anders had stoked something deep within them. They would not go down easily.

At the edge of the trench, a rumble rose, and through the murky night, the silhouette of Die Brechmaschine loomed. Its metal plating reflected the moonlight, catching brief flashes of machine light across its brutal, spiked form. With a grinding of gears, it surged forward, pushing through the debris-strewn no man's land, its armored bulk consuming everything in its path.

Anders turned, raising his weapon, his eyes fierce and steady. "Positions!" he called, his voice cutting through the night air.

The men moved, scrambling to their spots, clutching rifles, preparing grenades, their breaths held in that precarious moment before the storm broke.

The trench erupted as Die Brechmaschine advanced, tearing through the earth with a sound like grinding thunder. Its massive treads left deep, jagged furrows in the ground, throwing mud and debris high into the air as it came. Its towering bulk cast an ominous shadow, illuminated only by the intermittent flashes of artillery fire. With a hiss and a scream of metal, the machine's armor plates shifted, revealing the brutal spiked gauntlets ready to crush anything in their way.

Anders took his position, his heart pounding as he gripped his rifle tightly, watching as the machine rolled closer. In the eerie half-light of explosions and flares, it looked less like a war machine and more like a colossal beast, as if the metal had come alive with rage and malice. He raised his voice over the roar, calling commands down the line. "Aim for the joints! The treads! Anywhere we can slow it down!" He knew their bullets were no match for its plating, but they had to try to find a weakness, any vulnerability.

His men followed orders, braving the onslaught as they took aim. Shots rang out in sharp, desperate succession, pinging off Die Brechmaschine's armored hide. Sparks flew, bullets ricocheting into the dark as the metal titan bore down on them. Despite the assault, the machine seemed undeterred, rolling over the impacts like a storm over stones, relentless and unyielding.

With a terrible grinding noise, one of its arms swung out, massive claws raking through the trench with a brutal, mechanical precision. A few men scrambled out of its path, but others were caught, flung aside like rag dolls, their bodies lost amid the churned-up mud and smoke. Anders cursed, his teeth clenched as he fired off another shot, hoping to buy his men a few more seconds.

In a daring maneuver, Corporal Hurst broke from the line, sprinting along the trench with a satchel of grenades clutched in his hand. The young soldier's face was taut with fear, yet his eyes blazed with determination. Anders saw him reach the edge of the trench, barely ten yards from Die Brechmaschine, and throw himself into a crouch. With a swift movement, Hurst pulled the pins and hurled the grenades at the machine's left tread.

The explosions were deafening, a burst of smoke and flame that engulfed the machine's lower section. For a brief moment, the beast shuddered, its momentum slowing as the tread buckled and snapped. A cheer went up from the men, a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, they had a chance. But the hope was short-lived—the machine adjusted, grinding forward even on its damaged tread, slower but no less deadly.

Anders seized the opportunity. "Flamethrowers! Now!" he shouted, signaling for the men with fuel tanks to advance. A thick, acrid cloud of fire spewed forth, enveloping the machine in an inferno. Flames licked over the metal, clinging to the spiked armor and lighting up the battlefield in a fierce, hellish glow. But as the fire died down, the machine emerged, singed but intact, its joints hissing with steam as it continued its brutal march.

The trench was a whirlwind of activity as Anders' men fought desperately, launching grenades, firing in quick succession, using everything they had. Another soldier, Private Dawes, dashed forward with a bayonet, determined to make a last stand. He reached the machine's flank, driving his blade into a gap between its armor plates. Sparks flew, but the machine reacted, swinging one massive clawed arm down and sending Dawes sprawling back into the mud, lifeless.

Anders felt the weight of his men's lives pressing on him, each loss a fresh scar etched into his soul. But he couldn't falter. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed a rifle grenade, took aim, and fired at the machine's remaining tread. The grenade struck true, detonating in a brilliant flash that shattered the tread and left Die Brechmaschine immobilized, finally halting its relentless advance.

Yet even as it lay damaged, the machine's arm still moved, its claws swiping at the men like the flailing limb of some wounded beast. Anders raised his voice, rallying his soldiers. "We've got it pinned! Stay sharp, watch for the claws, and keep your distance!" He glanced down the line, meeting the eyes of every soldier who looked back at him. "This machine might be built to kill, but we're here to live. Remember that!"

The men regrouped, pulling together what strength remained as they prepared for a final assault.