Short story series: "Lookout 9"

Three years after the Alisetch Republic annexed the landlocked country Taloweiz, Ciwera, worried about being next, had stationed multiple outposts throughout the cold climate of their country’s borders with the task to repel any invading enemies.

Ciwera has unfathomably cold temperatures. The country is bordered by Taloweiz and a few other small countries. They have a weak army with outdated weapons. In 1881, Ciwera is attacked by the Alisetch Republic.

Positioned right by the frontlines, Lookout Post 9 struggles to follow orders. The ten remaining guards there argue daily. They are slowly falling apart. As it enters the fall of 1883, the Ciweran military is on the verge of being crushed by the enemy. One of the guards there, Lucien, holds fast and is doing the best he can to keep his comrades from going insane. But slowly over time, he finds it more difficult to do so.

The war rages on, and the world continues to burn.

It is yet again almost winter. The last four years have been unbearable. We have lost two men but managed to keep everyone else, and here we ten men are again, at each other's throats. Gale is, as usual, complaining about a glaringly evident lack of rations. Avem is griping about the harsh battering of snow. Ian pretends to think everything is fine. The others are going mad.

I have tried what I can, but it is almost hopeless. We are almost out of fuel to keep our fire going, we have scavenged all the resources around us, leaving a barren frozen wasteland. Our hands are rotting from frostbite. And, worst of all, the enemy is everywhere, and there’s not much we can do to stop them. Now, we are sitting together by the outpost’s fire, talking about our difficulties.

“I’m so sick of this blasted outpost. Can’t they just position us away from the front?” Avem mutters, his frigid breath wavering under the plain sound of blanketed snow.

“Watch your mouth,” Ian says quickly. “They said we would be back in a month or so. We just have to wait.”

“That was last year, Ian.” Avem groans. He fidgets with the barrel of his musket. “Last year.”

I look out at the woven cloth that acts as an entry to our tiny outpost. It dances with the wind, just like my scarf. I can hear the faint popping of muskets and cannons alike in the distance.

Gale begins to speak. “I don’t think they care anymore. They just left us to die in this withered, freezing, crumbling piece of -”

“Enemy ahead! Man your stations!” our spotter, Alan, yells from on top of our post. His scream echoes throughout the building.

I grab my musket, but hope not to use it. I go upstairs with Gale to the balcony, where Alan is. Once we get up, we finally find Alan. He is holding his scope, and his lantern is placed at his feet. It gives off a faint amber glow and melts the snow around it. Gale and I prepare our muskets, and watch the thick snow below us in the frigid unrelenting frost of the night.

The moon is not out tonight. The enemy is completely invisible.

“Report, Alan?” Gale asks.

“Enemy movement northwest from us. I infer they have just started a fire. You can see the light through the snow - it does not look that far ahead.” Alan responds.

I look forward, and sure enough, an orange burning flicker of light can be seen. It is slightly hindered by the snowfall, but not entirely invisible. A few shadows bustle around the fire.

“Should we tell Lookout 11?” I ask. “They are closer. Their cannon might be able to hit the enemy.” Alan puts down his scope and does not bother to glance back at me.

“No. They were not issued a cannon. They are also short in manpower.” Alan says.

I hear heavy footsteps behind me, coming from the staircase. It is our artillery man, Hamilton. He comes up unarmed, and looks at the three of us.

“We have a cannon,” he says.

Moments later, I am with Hamilton, next to the outpost’s cannon. My boots crunch in the snow. I roll the cannon out of the outpost with Hamilton’s help, and position it somewhere we can see the campfire. It is just a small field gun, but it will do. We load a single shot into the gun, and Hamilton uses a large swab to ram it down into the barrel. Hamilton changes the elevation of the barrel, thus we cover our ears and fire the gun.

BOOM!

A loud thud shakes the earth. Hamilton gazes into the snowy night as he watches the cannon ball glide, making sure it hits its target.

“I believe it will hit the enemy. You were always good at math, Hamilton.” I say. His glimmering eyes say it all - he is confident in his calculations. But I also see worry.

A few seconds later, Alan calls to me and Hamilton from on top of the balcony.

“Direct hit! We have pulverized the enemy.”

“Good job, Lucien.” Hamilton says.

“Couldn’t have done it without you.” I respond. Hamilton and I drag the cannon back into the outpost and wait for further instructions. A few hours pass, and all of the guards gather around the fire in the outpost again, but strangely, instead of griping, the men question the strange enemy movement.

“The enemy is getting closer. They were only a few yards away from us this time.” Avem says.

“It’s no doubt.” Alan says. The rest of the men nod in agreement.

“Exactly the point.” Gale says coldly. He is griping again. “We don’t matter, we never did.

We’re going to get overrun by the enemy. They’ll crush us. We were never going to win this…”

I hear an ominous piff go off in the distance. It sounded like gunfire.

“Did you guys hear that?” Hamilton says. The other men ignore him and continue listening to Gale talk.

“No. I - I don’t think so.” Ian says.

“...nothing even matters anymore. We’re going to shrivel over time and freeze to our inevitable demise.” Gale continues. “They never cared. It’s worthless. We’re all going to -”

In the blink of an eye, a grey blur flashes across the room, splintering through the spruce walls of our outpost and heading towards Gale’s forehead. Gale falls to the ground with crimson liquid spilling out of him. He does not speak, or even scream in pain. I look around the room, and everything is seemingly motionless. The men are aware of what happened. Avem’s eyes widen.

“We’re under attack!”

The men rush outside under the sound of a ringing bell, and we come face to face with the enemy who is attacking our base. I hold my hatchet, ready to attack - but it is shot out of my hand. More of our comrades fall to the ground, screaming.

“Hamilton! Get the cannon!” Alan yells, holding his sabre.

“I can’t! There’s not enough time!” Hamilton yells back.

Slowly, but surely, the enemy inches forward, continuing to fire their muskets. Our men are falling by the second.

“Hold fast! Fire at will!”

“Help! Someone!”

Everything rings my ears, and my feet are numb. There is too much to process and too little time to do so. Everything is a daze.

“Cannon! Cannon!” Hamilton hollers. I look up the hill the enemy is advancing from, and sure enough, they roll in a cannon.

The cannon fires.

“Everyone get down!”

A panicked scream escapes from my mouth, but it is far too late.

Then, everything goes black.

In just a matter of seconds, Lookout 9 was taken. It was the first outpost to be captured by the Alisetch Republic, preceding the aforementioned Lookout 11 which was taken after.

Lucien’s body took four years to discover. No one thought much of it.

Succeeding the capitulation of the snowy northwestern lands, Ciwera was annexed a few years later, and the war would spark centuries of unrest between Alisetch, Taloweiz, Ciwera, and many other countries.

The war rages on, and the world continues to burn.

The End