Filson was the last man out of the sewer four hours later. Smoke from the battle, trapped by the mountains around Santiago, lay thick on the city, diffusing the bright morning sun into an orange glow. The transition from dark to bright stung his eyes when they pulled him out of the manhole. He couldn’t hold them open. He also couldn’t stand straight. Shuffling along for hours, hunched over in the cramped sewer access line wrecked his back. By the end, he was crawling, up to his elbows in muck and rat shit. Coming out last had its advantages, though. The medical staff was ready, and he did not almost get shot.
The lead Raider had to bang on the manhole cover for more than half an hour to get the attention of those on the surface. Once noticed, it set off a panic. Was this part of the Chinese offensive? All the manhole covers in Santiago had been welded shut to prevent just such an infiltration.
After a lot of yelling and back and forth and commotion, the first Raider was finally pulled out to find himself surrounded by a platoon of Chilean National Guard—everyone else was holding off the Chinese between the rivers.
The filthy Raider moved slowly as the old men squinted at him over their rifle sights, frightened by the stinking revenant that had emerged from below. They discussed shooting him in rapid Spanish.
Fortunately, one of the Lobos was right behind the Raider and was able to defuse the situation with his countrymen. The Chilean guardsmen immediately started helping. Medical personnel were summoned. Wounded were rushed to the field hospital, and the more able-bodied were hosed off and given IVs. The dead, who had expired during the escape through the sewer, were placed carefully to the side and covered.
Filson sat on the curb with an IV in his arm as a medic cleaned the gash on his cheek. Looking over the medic’s shoulder to the south, Filson watched the smoke rise and listened to the booms of artillery. The sun had only been up for half an hour. As it continued to rise, the air brightened, the orange glow subsided, and the columns of smoke darkened.
“That’s the best I can do here, sir,” the medic said, standing up. “That thing is deep. It’s not gonna stop bleeding until we get a few stitches into it. Let’s get you back to the Med Station.”
He offered a hand to help Filson stand.
Filson shook his head.
“I’m gonna sit here a few more minutes, Sergeant.”
“Sir, I really—”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Just a few minutes.” Filson looked back at the smoke in the distance. “I promise.”
The medic looked in the direction of Filson’s gaze. Uncertain, he looked back at the filthy major. “Okay, sir. Just come over to the ambulance when you’re ready.”
Filson didn’t answer.
The medic turned to walk away, looking over his shoulder at Filson a few times as he left.
“The hell you lookin’ at, sir?” First Sergeant McGowan said, appearing next to Filson. They hadn’t had a chance to speak to each other since entering the sewer access line hours ago. It seemed like years.
“Smoke in the sunrise.”
“Oh,” McGowan lowered himself next to Filson, his motions shaky. “Aren’t you the fucking poet?”
The first sergeant grunted as his weight hit the curb and finally came off his legs.
“You gonna be able to get back up?” Filson asked, eyes still on the southern horizon.
“Not without help, asshole.”
The pair sat in silence, Filson still marveling that his gambit had worked. The Maulers had drawn the PLA fire just far enough away. Ground-penetrating artillery rained down less than a minute after Filson got into the sewer access line. He barely made it. Ears were still ringing, but the medic had assured him they weren’t ruptured.
“I’ve been trying to figure out where the remains of that damn Metro tunnel are from here,” Filson said. He lifted an arm, gesturing to the south. “Which bit of all that smoke is rising from Merko’s final…”
McGowan cleared his throat. “Hard to say. Looks like everything south of the Mapocho is on fire. But I’d put it…” He raised a hand, pointing without confidence. “Somewhere around there.”
Filson glanced at his first sergeant’s arm, then nodded.
“I wish he had made it out.”
“Yeah.” McGowan looked down. “Me too.”
Filson looked back at the horizon.
“Hatch too.”
“Hatch what?” McGowan looked at Filson.
“The last I saw of Hatch, he was sprinting into the darkness to catch up with the other Maulers. I can’t get the image out of my head.”
“He was a good soldier,” McGowan said.
“I wish he had made it out too.”
“Might have to disagree with you on that one, sir.”
Filson turned his head to look at McGowan.
The first sergeant alternated his hands up and down as he spoke, as if comparing the weight in each.
“Corporate scrap heap, or a blaze of glory with his comrades?”
“Is that how robots think?”
“That’s how I think.” McGowan dropped his hands to his sides, grunting as he adjusted his weight on the curb. He looked back up at Filson. “That’s how you think. And that’s how Captain Merko thought. Don’t give Hatch any less.”
That's the story of Filson in Santiago. Thanks for following it to the end — it means more than you know.
An honest rating would mean a lot to the algorithms, and I would be grateful.
This story takes place more than a decade before the larger series, Spirit of the Bayonet. By then, Filson is a colonel training and mentoring the next generation of American Centaurs. If you want more, the door's open.
