Night devoured the last traces of daylight, swallowing the horizon in gradual increments until darkness claimed the sky completely. But the slum's frontline battlefield blazed with artificial brilliance that mocked the natural order of evening.
Countless low-rise buildings burned. Structures that had housed families, sheltered the desperate, offered what little refuge poverty allowed, now served as massive torches. Flames consumed wood and plaster and whatever cheap materials had been cobbled together over decades. The fires cast everything in harsh orange-red illumination, painting the surrounding destruction in colors that belonged to hell.
Smoke rose in thick columns, merging with the night sky above, creating a pall that hung over everything like a funeral shroud.
Bucky lay sprawled behind a trench, his body pressed against earth that had been torn open by servo robot excavation equipment mere hours earlier. The fresh dirt still smelled damp, mixing unpleasantly with the omnipresent scents of cordite, burning materials, and death. His expression remained carefully neutral, giving nothing away even though fatigue pulled at every muscle.
A protein energy bar occupied his mouth, the processed food tasting like sweetened cardboard but providing the calories his enhanced metabolism demanded. He chewed mechanically while holding a communication device to his ear, listening to the reconnaissance team's detailed report transmitted from deeper in the slum.
The combat team had penetrated nearly ten kilometers into hostile territory. Ten kilometers of contested ground, every meter paid for in ammunition and blood and sheer stubborn persistence. Approximately eighty to ninety thousand civilians had been successfully evacuated through their lines. Twelve hours had elapsed since operations began.
Twelve hours that felt like twelve days.
Thirty minutes before darkness fell completely, something unexpected had occurred. The Thrall and fanatical believers who'd been throwing themselves against the defensive lines with mindless persistence had simply... stopped. Withdrawn. Vanished back into the slum's depths like a tide receding from the shore.
The battlefield had fallen eerily silent, broken only by the crackle of fires and the occasional sound of collapsing structures.
That sudden withdrawal had granted the Gang Dogs precious breathing room. Time to reload, to rest, to treat injuries, to simply exist for a few minutes without incoming fire or close combat.
The automatic servo robots in reserve positions had immediately capitalized on the lull, moving forward with supplies. Ammunition boxes. Ration packs. Water. Medical supplies. Everything the exhausted soldiers needed to maintain combat effectiveness.
Bucky had wasted no time organizing reconnaissance teams. Local civilians who'd volunteered to help, people who knew these streets better than any outsider ever could, led small groups of Gang Dogs deeper into the slum. Their objectives were twofold: coordinate with the automated surveillance drones to locate the Blood Coven's command structure, and identify alternate evacuation routes for civilians too intimidated or confused to flee through the established channels.
"Yeah, I understand." Bucky's voice remained low, pitched for the communication device. "Stay alert. If you encounter enemies, don't engage. Priority is keeping yourself and the civilian guides alive. Understood?"
He terminated the connection and struggled to swallow the last bite of protein bar. The dry, compressed material stuck to the roof of his mouth, requiring effort to force down. His throat felt like sandpaper, parched from hours of shouting orders and breathing smoke-filled air. He worked his jaw, trying to generate enough saliva to ease the discomfort, then grimaced at the lingering artificial taste.
Bucky turned his head toward Old John, who sat further along the trench. The veteran was focused on his maintenance routine, polishing a silver-plated blade with the patient attention of someone who'd performed the task ten thousand times before.
"Old man," Bucky said, his voice carrying easily in the relative quiet. "Reconnaissance team reports that the Blood Coven believers are conducting their daily prayer ceremony. We've got at least half an hour before they resume operations."
He paused, then added: "Also, Mexican military and police forces have established positions at several other slum perimeter points. They're not entering the area, but they're intercepting civilians trying to escape during the prayer lull..."
Old John's hand stilled mid-stroke along the blade. His head lifted slightly, one eye fixing on Bucky with sharp attention. "Hm? That's actually positive development. Reduces pressure on our evacuation operations significantly. Means we're not fighting this alone, and we can dedicate more resources to dealing with the Blood Coven directly." He resumed polishing, the rhythmic sound of cloth against metal resuming. "By the way, have you compiled this information for David?"
The thick carapace armor Old John wore bore the accumulated evidence of twelve hours of sustained combat. Enemy blood, dried to a dark rust-brown, caked across the plating in irregular patterns. Bullet impacts had left scratches and small dents, metal scarred but not penetrated. Even his meticulously maintained white beard had been stained crimson, the blood seeping into the hair until it looked like he'd dipped his chin in paint.
But his hands remained steady as he worked the polishing cloth, and his voice carried no hint of fatigue.
Bucky shifted position at the trench's edge, moving with the careful awareness of someone operating in a combat zone. He exposed half his face first, just one eye rising above the parapet. His gaze swept the frontline battlefield, taking in the corpse-strewn streets, the burning buildings, the absence of movement beyond the fire's flickering. No signs of enemy activity.
Satisfied, he pulled back down into the trench's relative safety and turned his attention to the supplies scattered around them. His eyes tracked across ammunition crates, medical kits, ration packs, searching for one specific item.
"We reported it hours ago," he said in response to Old John's question, distraction evident in his tone. "David built the entire communication network. It knows everything we transmit. And battlefield command authority was delegated to us, remember? David's not going to micromanage." His throat constricted with thirst, making speech increasingly uncomfortable. "Though David has taken control of some surveillance drones, using them to locate the Blood Coven's primary nest. Seems like the Captain can't just sit in the base playing commander. Has to get personally involved."
He finally spotted what he needed. "Uh, old man, toss me that water bottle you're sitting on."
Old John reached beneath himself without looking, his robotic arm groping around until metal fingers closed on plastic. He yanked the bottle free and threw it in a single smooth motion.
Bucky's mechanical arm snapped up reflexively, catching the bottle mid-flight. The metal fingers, far more responsive than flesh could ever be, secured it without fumbling. He immediately unscrewed the cap and tilted his head back, pouring water directly into his mouth in desperate gulps. The liquid was warm, tasted faintly of plastic, and felt like the most luxurious thing he'd experienced in hours.
He drained half the bottle before pausing to breathe, then let out a satisfied belch that echoed slightly in the trench's confines.
Old John glanced up from his maintenance work, raising the freshly polished blade to examine it in the firelight. The silver coating gleamed, reflecting flames until it looked like the weapon itself burned. He nodded once in satisfaction, then slid the knife back into its sheath at his waist with practiced ease.
His attention turned to the freezing grenades hanging from his belt harness. He checked each one methodically, verifying the seals, confirming the indicator lights showed green for stable containment.
"Tch." The sound emerged somewhere between disapproval and amusement. "You think Nolan is like you? His potential runs as deep and profound as God-King Odin's ever did. How does that compare to you, dozens of years old and still acting like a boy who's never grown up..."
Old John's tone carried the weight of age and experience, the particular kind of exasperation that comes from watching someone younger waste their capabilities.
Bucky had closed his eyes, settling into the most comfortable position the trench's uneven ground allowed. When he responded, his voice came out lazy, almost drawling. "I've personally killed more than ten Blood Coven priests in one day. If everything continues well, taking down their bishop won't be particularly difficult. When we hold the victory celebration, everyone's going to want to honor me. Don't be jealous when that happens..."
"You're Asgard's reckless general," he continued, his words slowing as exhaustion finally caught up with him. "I'm humanity's cautious marshal. Our battlefield philosophies are fundamentally different. I'm just trying to complete the mission while bringing everyone home safely. How many enemies I kill personally, how much glory I accumulate... doesn't matter..."
His voice grew progressively weaker with each word, fading toward the edge of sleep.
Old John sat in the trench's shadow, one hand rising to scratch at his beard. The dried blood had made it stiff and uncomfortable, the individual hairs clumping together unpleasantly. He stared at Bucky's form, watching the younger man's breathing deepen into genuine rest.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, unbidden. Genuine warmth softened the hard lines of his face, transforming him momentarily from a veteran warrior into something almost grandfatherly.
The moment didn't last.
The smile vanished as if it had never existed. Old John surged to his feet with sudden violent energy, his single eye fixing on the dark night sky above the slum. His breath caught, then released in a sharp inhalation.
Dozens of massive shadows moved through the darkness beyond the firelight's reach. Huge silhouettes cutting across the stars, approaching rapidly from the slum's interior. Wings beat with powerful strokes, creating air displacement that registered even at this distance.
"Bucky!" Old John's roar shattered the relative peace like a grenade. "Stop fucking sleeping! Enemy air assault incoming!"
He turned, addressing the entire position with the kind of battlefield voice that carried across artillery fire. "You little bastards! Finish your food and water! Grab your lasguns and get your heads back in the fight! Valhalla doesn't accept guests yet, so stay alive!"
His attention snapped to the servo robots arrayed throughout the position. "And you mechanical bastards! On your feet! Gun barrels pointed skyward! If you fail to shoot down a single target, I'll personally dismantle you for scrap!"
The trench exploded into motion.
What had been a quiet rest area transformed into controlled chaos. Gang dogs scrambled to positions, shaking off exhaustion through sheer adrenaline and training. Hands moved with practiced efficiency: checking weapon charges, swapping in fresh energy magazines, confirming ammunition counts.
Several soldiers opened the rare thermostatic containers, revealing the freezing grenades stored within. The devices would provide options if the flying enemies got close enough for grenade range.
Automatic servo robots moved with even greater speed, mechanical bodies launching from concealed positions throughout the four-tiered defensive line. They dispersed to pre-planned firing points, elevated positions, anywhere that provided optimal firing angles against aerial targets. Metal bodies climbed rubble, scaled partially collapsed buildings, occupied rooftops.
Heavy logging guns mounted on their carapaces cycled through startup sequences. Ammunition feeds engaged with metallic clicks. The dark muzzles elevated, tracking the incoming shadows with calculated precision.
Then they opened fire.
Brilliant tracers tore through the night sky, solid rounds leaving glowing trails that painted the darkness in streaks of light. The silence shattered completely under the roaring thunder of multiple heavy weapons firing simultaneously. Each gun spat hundreds of rounds per minute, creating overlapping fields of fire that turned the airspace above the defensive line into a killing zone.
The automatic servo robots required no human input. Their targeting systems independently locked onto the approaching vampires, calculated lead angles based on speed and trajectory, and maintained continuous fire to maximize hit probability.
The vampires, for their part, demonstrated surprising agility. Massive fleshy wings beat frantically, creating evasive patterns in three dimensions. Their blood-colored bodies twisted and turned, diving and climbing in attempts to thread through the bullet storms.
It wasn't enough.
Two-thirds of the vampires disintegrated under concentrated fire. Large-caliber rounds designed for anti-material purposes punched through corrupted flesh with devastating efficiency. Bodies exploded into clouds of gore, wings shredded into ragged streamers, bones pulverized into fragments. The wreckage tumbled from the sky in pieces too small to pose continued threat.
The remaining third of the "air force" had no choice but to abort their attack pattern. They folded their wings and dropped, plummeting toward the slum's flame-lit streets in controlled falls that sacrificed grace for survival.
But before they could recover, before clawed feet could find purchase on broken pavement and corrupted muscles could prepare for ground combat, something worse happened.
The vampires exploded.
Violent detonations ripped through their already bullet-torn bodies, turning each surviving creature into an improvised bomb. Flames and pressure waves expanded outward, shrapnel consisting of bone fragments and corrupted tissue spraying in all directions.
The explosions lit up the darkness in rapid succession, creating a staccato rhythm of fire and destruction.
Bucky stood at the trench's edge, eyes narrowed against the glare, processing what he'd just witnessed. His mind worked through the tactical implications with the speed of long experience.
"Flying meat bombs," he muttered, voice carrying a note of grim respect. "Suicide attackers with wings. Have to admit, their commander's creative if nothing else."
He turned immediately toward Old John, decision crystallizing into action. "Old man! The enemy's surprise attack failed, and their ground forces haven't coordinated a follow-up! We need to exploit this opening and advance the entire front line! Let's see how much ground we can take before they reorganize!"
Old John's face split into a feral grin, the expression transforming him from veteran soldier to something far more primal and dangerous. "You're the commander, boy! I listen to you! All I want is to kill them all!"
He reached into the supply crates scattered through the trench, his hand emerging with a shotgun. The weapon was a hive city special, built for close-quarters brutality, each shell packed with enough force to punch through light armor at point-blank range.
Old John, encased in his heavy carapace armor despite the weight and bulk, suddenly launched himself upward. His legs drove hard against the trench floor, propelling him over the top and onto the battlefield's surface. He landed heavily, armor clanking, but already moving forward.
He turned back toward the position, his voice carrying across the defensive line. "I need a squad of crazy bastards who aren't afraid to die and love close combat! We're going to shove our weapons up the enemy's ass!"
The response was immediate.
More than twenty Gang Dogs vaulted over the trench lip, their armor marking them as they emerged from cover. They formed up around Old John with the instinctive coordination of soldiers who'd trained together, fought together, bled together.
The charge team, with Old John as their spearhead, crossed the frontline position without hesitation. They accelerated into the slum's depths, boots pounding against broken pavement, weapons ready, moving with the aggressive momentum of predators who'd sensed weakness.
Behind them, in the fourth defensive line's trenches, a different kind of movement was occurring.
The mixed team of civilian volunteers and Gang Dogs responded to Bucky's transmitted orders. They gripped their newly distributed lasguns, checked their charges one final time, then began crawling forward. Not running. Not charging. Simply advancing with the careful deliberation of people who understood the value of surviving the next minute.
They moved toward the third line's positions.
As they advanced, the Gang Dogs occupying the third trench received their own orders. Under covering fire from concentrated servo robot positions, they rose from their positions and began their own advance. They ran in tactical bounds, using fire and movement principles, heading toward the second trench line further ahead.
The pattern repeated. Each defensive line advancing in sequence, maintaining coherence while pushing forward into territory previously held by the enemy.
From above, had anyone possessed the vantage point to observe, the tactical evolution would have been clear.
The entire combat team moved like an ocean wave. Not as a single unified charge that could be broken by concentrated resistance, but as a flowing, rolling advance. Each element supporting the others, creating momentum that was difficult to counter because there was no single point to strike.
Wave tactics. Old as warfare itself, but still brutally effective when executed with discipline and coordination.
The Gang Dogs crashed forward into the slum's burning heart, and the Blood Coven's defensive perimeter contracted under the pressure, giving ground that would be difficult to reclaim.
The battle raged on through the night.
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