The Wild Beasts of Anthony Mannis
Prologue

Though the militia still fought, the battle had long been finished.

The Borges possessed superiority in numbers and technology and were not holding back. The ragged Ocean Zone Militia was being systematically divided and destroyed on the trench-ridden field.

“C-Captain Mannis!” shouted an OZM soldier. His rifle trembled in his grip as he pointed toward the blackened sky, his fingers extending past the lip of the foxhole.

“What is it, Thomas?” the captain—a powerfully built man with a black beard and a lined face—turned to follow the soldier’s gaze.

On both sides of the battlefield, men yelled orders and screamed in agony. The smell of chemical fire hung in the air. Sounds of gunfire mixed with crackling blasts of energy, the clanking gears of the twisted three-legged stalkers, and the robotic hums and rat-tat-tats of sweeper gunners overhead. Despite this disorienting cacophony, one aspect demanded all attention: the colossus.

A giant skeleton towered above the trees, the tops of which brushed only its chest. A vulpine skull sat where a human one should, flaming yellow pits in its eye-sockets. Ivory-bone feet the size of battlewagons stomped on foxholes and kicked at trenches. Yellow teeth clacked through an abomination of a grin as it swung a tanker-sized scimitar at an OZM barricade, ripping through the steel plating as if it were made of playing cards. It gnashed its teeth and rumbled a challenge to the ants below.

“A Behemoth,” Captain Mannis said grimly, “they brought The Black Death.”

“T-the Black Death?”

“SSI. Special Service Invokers. Borges’ big guns.”

“W-what can we do against invokers?”

Captain Mannis glanced around at his squad embedded in the trenches, dirt-covered and sleep-deprived. They stared blankly at him with sunken eyes, gaunt faces awaiting orders. Long live the OZM.

Large black orbs hung in the air—skydrones—each with one great glowing red eye staring them down, unblinking. Rat-tat-tat.

“Darius,” Captain Mannis ordered a red-bearded lieutenant, “take the men through the trenches. We need to get out of here before Violet sees them. Get them to safety. I’ll be right behind you.”

Darius saluted and jogged off, the OZM slowly following him. A shell whistled overhead.

Captain Mannis checked the ammo level of his revolver. Nearly empty. He stood up and squinted. One soldier had not left with the others.

“Thomas, why are you still here.”

The thin boy gripped his rifle. “I-I’ll leave when you leave, captain.”

“You know I’m not going with them.”

Thomas stood where he was and thrust his chin in the air. “Y-yes sir.”

Captain Mannis frowned, sizing the boy up. Then, his face softening, he clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Well, my friend, it is an honor.”

“L-let’s go kick their butts, sir.”

They leapt out of their foxhole, yelling and firing their weapons. The Citadel Defense Force agents who were attempting to follow Darius were easy targets with exposed backs. Captain Mannis threw a grenade at a stalker, taking out its leg. He withdrew with Thomas as the stalker crashed to the ground.

“I’m out,” Captain Mannis shouted as they ran toward another OZM trench.

“M-me too.”

Something slammed across his back and he tumbled into the trench, smashing up against a wooden barricade. Red and black spotlights danced across his vision, sparking in time with painful twinges. Groaning, he pulled himself upright. Thomas was next to him, doubled over. Across from them were a CDF squadron, a duo of Spectre Men… and the Behemoth. So that is what hit us.

Behind the Behemoth was a young girl robed in black—not much older than ten years of age. Her face was painted in the likeness of a skull; a red circle with three teardrops pinned over her heart.

Violet.

“Captain Mannis,” boomed one of the Spectre Men, an imposing figure who stood a head taller than the soldiers around him. The officer was clad in white Citadel Defense Force armor down to the boots, and had his helmet’s visor pulled down over his face. The whine of priming energy emanated from the massive railgun he held with gloved hands.

Captain Mannis tried to stand but found he could not.

“What do you want, pig?”

“I want nothing but for you to know that your efforts have been in vain,” the Spectre Man said, “Your feeble attempt to salvage the remainder of your forces into one final attack on Cirk Malpy was ill-conceived. Many men died because of you. The Second Uprising has been a failure.”

Captain Mannis eyed his revolver. It was out of reach. Empty, besides.

“No,” Thomas said.

His face contorted with pain as he dragged himself to a sitting position. He had to use the barricade to keep himself upright, eyes shining as he spoke unfaltering.

“No it was not. For as long as we were fighting you, we were free. We held our heads high; walked, ate, and slept as free men. That is no failure.”

“Congratulations then,” the Spectre Man said, “you will now die free men.”

Captain Mannis stared past the massive Behemoth at the girl invoker.

“You animal. Are you going to make her watch this?”

“I am not making her. She is free to turn her attention elsewhere, but…Violet enjoys this.”

The girl grinned, a twisted image of death.

Captain Mannis, livid, trembled as he spoke. “You Borges disgust me. That girl should not be summoning giant skeletons, ghouls, or ghosts. You took something beautiful from this good green earth and twisted it into perversion, like you do with every natural thing.”

The Spectre Man lifted his visor, revealing a pair of cruel blue eyes. “Fortunately for you, you will not have much longer to be disgusted.”

At the feet of the giant skeleton the Spectre Man raised his railgun to his shoulder, as did his partner and the rest of the squadron. Captain Mannis squinted, but did not shield his eyes from the laser sights that were half-blinding him. Anthony. Munroe. I am sorry, my sons.

He lifted his chin. “Thomas.”

“Yes, captain?”

“Long live the OZM.”

“Long live the OZM, sir.”

The sweeper gunners went rat-tat-tat.

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