The Brothers Angelus
Chapter 4: Survival
The brisk breeze rolled through the lush trees around him and he heard the rapid rush of the river as he lay prostrate on its embankment. Without command his fingers grasped the growth and sandy earth on which he lay. And with a spark that quickly roared into a wildfire Davriel Angelus awoke.
Dumbfounded and weary he immediately recounted the events aboard the Skyhawk: the pursuit of the Gunrunners, the machine gun hits as they panged against the aircraft’s hull, the anxious shouts of Elnezzi and Delantos among the worried ailing and cursing of Cpl. Trane and the men in the hold. He remembered the bold and extremely reckless decision to exit the hold after the loss of one of the ship’s turret gunners. He then recalled his brief firefight with the Gunrunners, his sacrificial strike against the second foe, and lastly his fatal plummet toward the ground. Only the last part confused him. The fall wasn’t fatal; he wasn’t dead.
Davriel drew a blank as he willed himself upright, unsure as to what happened that brought him to his current state: alive on the bank of some river. It was as if he’d blacked out and completely forgotten that moment of his life. Before focusing too intently on his lapse in memory he caught sight of his legs and a jolt of pain immediately shot through his body as he observed a distinctly dislocated kneecap.
He reeled in pain for a moment before the soldier in him asserted itself and his survival skills and training kicked in. He had to reset the bone and find some sort of support or brace. Looking about, Davriel located a tree line not far from the river and painstakingly hauled himself arm over arm to it. Propping himself up against a sturdy tree he prepared himself for what he had to do. Finding a suitably sized branch on the ground, Davriel broke it down and placed it beside his leg. Biting down on a smaller stick he grabbed his leg at the knee and slowly began moving the kneecap back into place. He cringed in anguish throughout the process and bit down hard on the stick. Finally with one last agonizing shock, the kneecap jolted back into place.
With his combat knife Davriel trimmed the remaining twigs and nubs of the branch and fashioned a brace using the tape and compresses from the limited supplies he found within his tactical vest; all the while thankful that despite being a non-com, regulations required him to wear basic survival gear during the deployment. Regaining his senses now that his leg had been dealt with, Davriel assessed the rest of his body.
The rest of him appeared fairly intact, despite the plethora of small, minor cuts and bruises on his arms and body. Judging himself fit enough, Davriel stood and examined his surroundings. He eased his full weight onto his injured leg and with a brief wince of pain he gathered that he was fit enough to move. He then observed the broad river and dense tree lines on its sides. He remembered that the Skyhawk had aimed for a landing on a south-eastern trajectory that ran relatively parallel to the river. Unfortunately he currently had no absolute way of telling the precise direction of the Skyhawk’s crash, he wasn’t at a high enough elevation. He then looked straight downstream on the western bank of the river where he saw a plateau jutting out above the river. Go for high ground to further assess the surroundings.
Before setting out he checked stock of himself and searched his tactical vest for equipment. He still had another compress pack and half the roll of medical tape to replace his bandage, several different antidotes, a tube of med-gel and smaller bandages, and finally three med-stims to suppress any pain. Checking further he reassured himself by firmly grabbing the hilt of his survival knife sheathed on his vest, a standard issue view-scope, and the full canteen at his waste: he was set for medical and survival equipment as far as he was concerned. Continuing, he quickly realized he still had one of the flash-bangs and three krak grenades in the pouches of his vest; those should come in handy should I find myself in a last stand situation he thought. Finally he checked the holster at his side; there he felt the reassuring grip of his RP-18—the standard issue repeating pistol given to all brother-soldiers in the UTF. He located the four spare clips his vest allowed and removed the gun from its holster. Aware of his presence in hostile territory he removed a full clip and smoothly slid it into the gun and pulling the hammer back, loaded the first round into the chamber. Conscious of the need for stealth and discretion in hostile territory however, he put the safety on and re-holstered the weapon, relying instead on his knife—silent but certainly just as deadly in close quarters. Not wishing to linger he used one of his med-stims to sooth any residual pain from resetting his knee, and judging himself fit he set out for the plateau on the western bank.
He set out at a pace as fast as his injured knee would allow him and made his way south, gaining ground as he journeyed toward the plateau. He realized that should any enemy forces spot and engage him he would be easy pickings as a lone wounded soldier, but there was no way he was going to let that get in his way. His only focus now, beyond reaching the crashed Skyhawk, was to get out of there; all he cared about was making it out alive. He had been given a second chance it seemed, and based on his final thoughts before his supposed death he realized where he needed to go, who he needed to see. The images he saw before he hit the ground; his brothers, Jonos, Savos, and Cephus; the wind, earth, water, fire. And then the blackness. It all meant something, but he wasn’t quite sure what exactly. All Davriel knew was that he needed to get home to his brothers. He needed them now and he would do anything necessary to reach them.
As he made his way to higher ground more of his surrounding area became clear to him. He continued to journey south along the ridge of the river until he finally crested the plateau as it leveled out and looked over the river and its surrounding area. Davriel recognized the river as the Uparatese River, the largest river in the New Morrabian Peninsula. The river cut south and eventually led southeast, all the way from its source in the Morrabian Highlands in the north to its mouth at the Morrabian Gulf where it later met with the Cybian Ocean in the south. As he looked upon the valley in front of him Davriel was quick to spot the plume of smoke coming from the east that no doubt came from the crashed Skyhawk. He removed his view-scope from his tactical vest and zoomed in toward the crash site. He could clearly see the heavily wooded area surrounding the crash and gauged the pathway to the downed transport roughly passable, right after the jarringly steep decline from the plateau that he would soon face.
He wasn’t able to see the Skyhawk itself but was at least able to spot a clearing on the other side of the river where he could start his trek to it. He realized now, that every second he wasted was another second the Morrabian insurgents had to track him down and close in on the remainder of the crew—if any of them survived the crash—and he immediately stowed the view-scope and began the harrowing decent down the steep plateau toward the river.
After what seemed like an age of slips, slides, and stumbles, Davriel finally made it to the riverbank beneath the plateau, despite his freshly relocated knee. He then had a clear sense of just how fierce the river was. He determined that the Uparatese River had to have been about 40 meters across and going much faster than he would have liked at this particular spot. His one consolation was that it was at least a dryer season and the river had visibly descended from its previous mark. Taking solace in the little things he immediately began calculating how far up river he’d have to go in order to reach the other side in exactly the right spot. Again, he removed the view-scope and took account of the opposite shore. He found the spot he had eyed from above and estimated he’d have to go at least 100 meters upstream in order to hit his target: a 10 meter patch of light reeds that he’d aim for on the opposite shore that led into the dense jungle.
Stowing the view-scope he began the short hike to his desired spot. After he judged he had gone far enough he removed another med-stim from his survival kit and thrust it into his thigh. Feeling the stim’s immediate effects he turned and slowly began wading into the turbulent water to cross the river. It wasn’t long before the full force of the river swept him up and the current took hold of him completely.
Davriel wasn’t the strongest swimmer—no, that had always been Cephus—but he was at least competent and more importantly, he knew the dangers of swimming in turbulent water. Given that fact he swam as hard and as fast as his damaged body would allow and he made his way to the other shore as the current took him downstream. He was barely able to reach the spot of reeds he targeted, and grabbing hold of large rocks on the riverbed, he was finally able to stop himself from being carried too far downriver. He then strained himself against the river’s current and hauled himself toward the shoreline. After pulling himself ashore and catching his breath for a minute, Davriel took to his feet yet again and set off at a renewed pace, albeit slightly slower than before due to his soaked clothing. He was grateful to be out of the water though and was anxious to get to the crash site.
It wasn’t long before he reached the vicinity of the crash, and before he moved in to what could have been a trap he took cover behind a large oak tree near fifty meters out in order to get an advanced look at the site. He climbed about half way up the tree and noticed the smoke had dissipated somewhat but he couldn’t see any signs of life. He toggled between the zooms on his view-scope and gave the area a solid sweep and deemed the surrounding area clear, for the moment at least. He then descended the tree and moved toward the crashed Skyhawk as stealthily as possible.
As he approached the crash site he removed his side arm and took a brief mental stock of his equipment. He had his side arm and three spare clips, one remaining flash grenade, the 3 krak grenades—which would only really help against vehicles—and what was left of his personal first aid kit.
Nearing the crashed Skyhawk Davriel was able to see the extent of the transport’s damage. The cockpit glass had shattered and the nose of the ship had crinkled to a snubbed end. The entire right wing had been ripped off in the crash and Davriel could see much of the top and rear engine-mounts had been shredded off as well; all no doubt worsened from the strike from the Gunrunner’s crack-shot cannon before the actual crash. There were countless additional holes of various sizes that peppered the hull on much of its surface; some were clearly the signs of the Gunrunners’ attacks, others resultant of the crash landing. He was relieved not to have been in the Skyhawk for its final moments.
Davriel neared the crashed aircraft looking closer at the damaged cockpit and was able to see the body of Elnezzi draped over the controls, battered and bloody, head slumped forward and lifeless. He noticed however, that Delantos’ body was nowhere to be seen, at least in the cockpit. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you Army.
He continued to investigate the wrecked aircraft and as he examined the perimeter of the crash he found that along with the tail section and rear engine-mounts, a portion of the rear compartment had been obliterated as well. The entire hatch section was gone and Davriel saw that seven seats had been lost entirely, as well as the heavy arms cargo. He realized that the crates containing the Stingray missile launchers and the Ac-7 assault rifles had been lost in the crash, but also that a number of the aircraft’s passengers were now laying prostrate on the ground or slumped over lifelessly in their safety harnesses. He holstered his weapon and searched for vitals getting through six of the bodies before finding the faintest trace of a pulse in Corporal Trane. “D-Trane can you hear me?” He began, “D-Trane it’s me, Davriel!”
“D-D-Dave? That you man?” Trane managed, “How’d you… m-make it?”
“I don’t know.” Davriel muttered, bracing Trane on the floor of the Skyhawk.
“We thought….” Trane started, but faded off.
“Stay with me D-Trane!” Davriel encouraged as he held Trane’s head in his arms and noticed the profuse amount of blood he was losing from the back of his head and from his back.
“We… We thought you didn’t make it. B-b-but you did.” Trane whispered as he coughed up blood.
“I made it D-Trane,” Davriel said, trying to sound reassuring, “and so will you.”
“Nah, man, hehe,” Trane managed to laugh between labored breathing and coughing, “I ain’t comin’ back from this one. You gotta…” he stopped to cough up yet more blood, “you gotta’ make it. You gotta’ surv… you gotta’ survive…” Trane’s words stopped cold as his head slumped down in Davriel’s hands.
Davriel didn’t cry, he didn’t shout in agony, he simply sat there in stunned silence for a moment. He closed Trane’s lifeless eyes and laid his body back on the floor of the crashed transport. He clenched his bloodied fists in anger and could feel his own blood stirring in his veins; he could feel a fire beginning to burn inside him. This feeling of loss gravely disheartened Davriel, but it simultaneously emboldened him as he realized how important it was to return home.
He was drawn from his musing when he heard a muttering from the forward section of the Skyhawk, “Ang… Angelus?” the voice creaked.
“Delantos!” Davriel exclaimed as he rushed for him. Delantos was clutching a bloodied right side and was dragging himself up onto one of the seats.
“How the hell did you make it you crazy bastard?” Delantos asked in fascination.
“I guess I got lucky.” Was all Davriel could manage as he embraced Delantos.
“If only Army and the others coulda’ been so lucky.” Delantos responded in sorrow.
“I saw,” Davriel said with his head lowered, “Looks like we’re the only two who survived.”
“Yeah, looks like it.” Delantos responded half-heartedly.
“Well, if we want to keep on surviving we’re gonna’ have to move, and fast.” Davriel offered. As he said this he made for the remaining crates of rations and medical supplies. The crates had cracked open in the crash and the contents were strewn around the wreckage. Davriel began riffling through the contents for medical supplies to tend to Delantos. He used his med-gel and several bandages to seal up his side, then gave him one of the med-stims to ease his pain. He had overcome his own wounded and ailing body as soon as he realized the need to care for his comrade’s. He then returned to the supply crates and stuffed his various pockets and pouches with what rations and supplies he could, as well as Delantos’ pockets. Once he had gotten all he could carry without overburdening himself, he returned to Delantos. Now, with Delantos’ right arm draped over his shoulders, he picked him up and began to make his way toward the exit. As they made their way to the exit Davriel did what he could to ease Delantos’ exit by dodging to the left and right of the various bodies strewn about the wreckage.
Suddenly, and without any kind of warning, a wiz sounded by his left ear and he felt a slight mist on the left side of his face, and then he heard the crack of the sniper rifle.
Immediately after Davriel heard it, Delantos’ body fell from his arms and crumpled to the floor; a gaping hole replacing the spot that used to hold the right side of Delantos’ brain.
Davriel fell to the floor a split second before the second shot came; narrowly missing his head by a mere half a meter. The enemy had found him. He’d taken too long and they had come sooner than he’d hoped. He’d been too late again. He wasn’t able to save D-Trane, or Delantos, he wasn’t able to save any of them. He realized then, that he hated this situation and the stupidity of it, he hated that his transport of non-coms had been shot down for the sake of some nonsensical war; that he wasn’t able to save any of his comrades. But most of all he hated that he was likely to face his own death here and now, and would ultimately fail to return to his brothers.
This feeling of failure had kindled the fire inside him and it flared as he determined he would satiate the desire to avenge his fallen comrades and not fail again. He redrew his side arm and fired off a short burst of covering fire as he took what cover he could behind the scattered detritus and bodies that littered the compartment. Another shot rang out and impacted in the hold. Taking cover behind the supply crates he happened upon two abandoned flash grenades and was pleased to add them to his inventory. Yet another shot rang out as it hit near the open hatch that lead to the cockpit. This gave Davriel an idea.
He withdrew one of the flash grenades from his vest and pulled the pin. He then tossed the grenade out the back hatch, closed his eyes, covered his ears, and waited for the flash of light and the thump to follow, *fup-bangg.* The grenade detonated and Davriel broke cover as he rushed for the cockpit and let off another salvo of shots. He sprinted and made it to the cockpit, taking cover behind the pilot’s seat, and took a few seconds to reload his weapon and gather his wits. Three clips remaining, doubtful that’ll be enough. He didn’t have time to dwell on that as he quickly focused on what caught his eye holstered on Elnezzi’s pilot chair. There in a weapon holster with 3 extra mags, was a pilot-issued Sc-MP2 submachine gun; the Sc-MP2 shot 8.2 mm rounds either as single shot or full auto, with a magazine capacity of 28. Having it would drastically increase his odds of surviving this incursion and he said a brief word of thanks to the lifeless form of Elnezzi for giving him help beyond the grave.
He snatched up the new weapon, loaded it and quickly assessed his next move. He realized that the shattered remains of the cockpit left a hole wide enough to fit through and immediately he decided on his plan of action. He would slip out through the hole in the cockpit window—hoping that the enemy wasn’t flanking around his position—and attempt to sneak back to the river, where he could then swim downstream to a nearby village and commandeer transport to get the hell out of there. He decided he wouldn’t use the Sc-MP2 just yet but would save it for when he truly needed it.
Not wishing to linger any longer and allow the enemy to close in on his position Davriel primed yet another flash grenade and tossed it out of the cockpit to cover his escape. *Fup-bangg* came the muffled sound of the grenade.
Davriel nodded his thanks to the lifeless form of Elnezzi, quickly scaled the control panel of the Skyhawk and then exited the ship. As he dropped down he heard the whimpers of two voices, it was in another language, but Davriel could tell it was a curse simply by the way the men grumbled. He was instantly grateful for his previous precaution, but didn’t dwell long on the fact. He removed his combat knife from his harness and lunged for the man closest to him. He grabbed him by the arm with his knife-hand, placed his leg through the enemy soldier’s leg and pushed forward with his gun-hand, sending the enemy off balance. He then brought the knife down directly into his chest.
Again he thought for a moment how grateful he was for his precaution—this time thanking the IPC (Immediate Proximity Combat) techniques he’d elected to learn and master in Basic Training. Again, his appreciation was short-lived as the other man started to wildly fire in Davriel’s general direction, having heard the muffled dying scream of his comrade. Davriel heard increased shouting in the distance and immediately realized that these two men, as well as the sniper from before, had backup. Hearing the shouting get closer Davriel dove for the cover of a fallen tree and waited for the enemy soldier to stop to reload. He still had his sidearm out, now in a joint grip with the knife, and focused intently before firing. He heard the faint breeze in the trees around him, the voices of the approaching soldiers, felt the weight of the weapon in his hand, then suddenly he heard the dimmest click and realized the wild-firing soldier had popped out the expended clip to reload.
Davriel took advantage of the soldier’s lapse and emerged from cover immediately planting a burst of three bullets in the chest of his foe. The soldier fell dead to the ground as the voices and shouting approached. Davriel sought cover yet again and was able to get into a well suited vantage point as the others approached. Four more soldiers came into his field of view and inspected the two dead bodies of their fallen comrades. Davriel used this distraction to his advantage. He primed his last flash grenade and tossed it. Again the dull thump of the detonation was heard and Davriel looked out from his cover to see the four newly arrived soldiers reel in discomfort and distortion. He’d decided now to use the Sc-MP2 to engage these new enemies and immediately opened fire. He was able to down three of the enemy soldiers, but the fourth was able to find cover quickly enough to avoid being hit.
Using the last moments of this distraction Davriel set off into the jungle cover back toward the river at a dead sprint—his mind too preoccupied with survival to even think about his previously dislocated knee. As he ran he could hear yet another group of voices approaching the crash site. He was glad to be heading away from it but was still anxious as he was not yet out of the woods.
After a few minutes of a dead sprint Davriel made it to the river, although not where he had been before. Somehow he had gone much farther north than intended and stood on an embankment a solid 15 meters above the rushing river below. He stopped once he reached the precipice and thought of his options. Hearing more voices converging on his position and seeing no better alternative, Davriel turned around and unloaded the remainder of the Sc-MP2’s clip into the jungle behind him. As the clip sounded empty he triggered the clip-release and let the gun fall to his side on its strap. He primed a krak grenade and tossed it into the jungle. The grenade would have minimal effect against personnel as it was designed for use against vehicles but it would at least serve to slow down his pursuers. He then reloaded the submachine gun with remarkable ease and fired another prolonged burst into the brush as the grenade detonated.
Judging the resounding thump of the grenade and his subsequent hail of gunfire to be enough to hold off the enemy’s advance—at least for the moment—Davriel turned, and without hesitation, jumped into the river.
The strong current was enough to take him out of sight by the time his pursuers got to the embankment and they soon decided to turn back and focus on salvaging the equipment and utilities from the crash rather than continue pursuing a lone soldier. Eventually the river led Davriel past several small villages but none that had adequate transport. Most had been simple, bucolic five to ten family communities that subsisted by the land. None of them had reliable enough transportation to get him where he needed to finally go; not a single motor vehicle of any kind was among them. On one occasion he did stop to rest, eat, get some fresh water, and change his bandage again. Additionally, he’d fashioned a make-shift raft with the help of a father and son in the village repaying them with rations and medical equipment; but he wasn’t long before setting off again down river, hoping to chance upon some kind of suitable way back.
Where was ‘back’ anyway? He realized that up until now he’d been fighting for his UTF companions. But they were all dead now, in a transport crash in which he would technically be listed as MPD: missing, presumed dead. Additionally, he recalled, the UTF had stood idly by as it happened. They hadn’t sent any aid during the dogfight, they hadn’t sent a rescue, hadn’t even tried to establish contact with him. He hadn’t seen or heard a single UTF aircraft, soldier, or transmission since he’d started downriver and was positive that they’d occupied portions of the territory in which he now found himself. He spent much time floating on the raft downriver wondering why he hadn’t come across any UTF forces until late on the third night after the crash. His leg was feeling significantly better despite his hard-pressed pace and he still had ample rations and medical supplies after having restocked at the crash site—despite giving some of it to the villagers who’d helped him.
That night he’d come across a small detachment of Morrabian insurgents posted on a small dock along the river. Davriel broke up the raft and slowly got into the water while holding onto its remnants and slid past the camp unnoticed, appearing like just another piece of flotsam floating downriver. After passing their encampment Davriel made his way ashore and began sneaking through their camp. Due to their sloppy sightlines and lax patrol routines, Davriel had stealthily snuck through their camp, careful not to alert any guards to his presence. He’d used the cover of night to his advantage and was able to successfully commandeer a small dinghy docked a ways down from the boat they had been guarding.
The boat wasn’t much, it had room for four at most, but it had oars and a motor and would allow him to make far better time downriver—though he planned on saving the motor for when he’d made it beyond insurgent controlled territory, out to open water. He carefully untied the mooring ropes that kept the dinghy docked and pushed off, using one of the oars to navigate his way back into the open river. After getting a safe enough distance away he took account of the items aboard the dinghy. He noticed a small radio aboard and immediately decided to do some audio recon to get a more informed grasp on his situation. Over the radio he listened in on guerilla broadcasts and picked up what sounded like confusion. He couldn’t have been sure, but he thought he’d heard the Morrab words for “gone” “leaving” and definitely heard the word “Feds” and sat in bewilderment as he pondered the meaning of such words. He turned the radio off and decided to focus his mind elsewhere and began rowing to aid in his departure from this place.
As he continued downstream he eventually made his way to the mouth of the Uparatese, there he utilized the dinghy’s motor and finally reached open water. From there he could take the boat to Elpris, a small independent and neutral country from which he could surely charter a way home. Before he set out to the island, which was clearly visible against the day-breaking sky, he scanned the radio once more and was able to find what he believed were Federal broadcasts describing some sort of mass scale consolidation. What the hell could that be? He also heard the Mandali UTF Head Quarters in Cybia referred to several times and wondered if that was where everyone was heading. Finally after cycling through the channels he picked up on a secure and explicit UTF transmission, “…ctive …. field forces are to return to base and report for relocation. Repeat: all active UTF field forces are to return to base and report for relocation.” The transmission kept repeating and Davriel decided he’d heard enough and turned the radio off to think on what he’d heard.
All UTF forces in the area were to head to Mandali HQ for relocation. They were leaving. After everything he’d just gone through Davriel contemplated why he should report for relocation. Why should I report in when they didn’t help me? They didn’t help Army, D-Trane, and Elnezzi, any of them. They didn’t help us. They left us for dead. For all they know I went down in the crash and am as dead as the rest of them. Then something dawned on him; he’d had enough of the UTF and their bureaucratic nonsense, the pointless sacrifices it demanded, the ultimate futility of it. He decided to be finished with it. He would use his presumed death as a means to escape it and return to what really mattered.
With a firm constitution Davriel resolved not to return to the UTF, but in fact, to make his way to Elpris and find a way home, to what mattered most: his family; his brothers.