Read Online Stone Soldiers 4: Shades of War by C. E. Martin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C. E. Martin
Ads: Link
interrupted by the sound of screams. Tom leapt from his bunk and pulled on his boots, bending over to hold a boot in place as he jammed his wool-socked foot into it. Amid the screams outside he heard a whistling. Looking up from his boots, he saw a hole in the fabric wall of his tent.
Another whistling sounded, right beside Tom's ear, and another hole appeared in the tent wall. It suddenly dawned on him that a musket ball had just flown past his head. He turned slowly on his folding cot. He saw two matching holes in the canvas. His tent had been shot. Twice.
The last bit of sleep faded from Tom's mind and he dove for the ground. The screaming outside was a mix of terror and pain- not jubilant reenactors gleefully reliving the past. These were real screams- of people really dying.
Tom belly-crawled across the grass floor of his tent and poked his head out. Men in Union uniforms were running around in utter chaos- many screaming, many pale with fear. But they were not alone.
Men in gray uniforms were present, thrusting with their muskets, bayonets stabbing at the men in blue. Others held rifles to their shoulders and fired- emitting bright, noiseless flashes. These silent, surreal volleys were followed by the Union reenactors suddenly sprawling to the ground, blood flying from their bodies.
This was real combat. And the Northerners were being butchered.
A scream sounded nearby, much louder than the others, due to its proximity. Tom glanced over and saw one of the men he knew from prior reenactments drop to his knees, a bayonet protruding from his chest.
The bayonet glimmered then faded away- not retracting, but simply vanishing into thin air. As the dead man, Jamie, fell onto his face, Tom could see his killer. A Confederate in full foot soldier's uniform, wearing a wide-brimmed, floppy hat.
The soldier turned toward Tom and he felt his blood run cold in his veins. It was not a human face that looked at him. It was the face of a skull, surrounded in an eerie sheath of mist-like gray. It opened its mouth and seemed to scream silently.
Then it was standing in front of him.
The ghostly figure had simply dissolved and swept forward, like smoke caught in a strong wind. It then resolidified right before Tom, seemingly human. It raised its musket high, ready to thrust down and spear Tom's head with its shimmering bayonet.
Tom closed his eyes, bracing for his immediate death.
Then he heard a new sound, over the screaming. The sound of helicopters.
Tom opened one eye, then the other, peeking up at the ghostly Confederate standing over him. It had turned its spectral head and was looking out, over the battlefield. Then it turned smoke-like again, and was swept away, moving toward the sound of the helicopters.
Tom stood slowly on legs that quivered and felt rubbery. He squinted and tried to look through the darkness. He saw blinking green and red lights coming in fast, only a hundred feet above the treetops to the southeast.
Helicopters- Army helicopters. UH-60 Blackhawks, Tom knew. He was, after all, a student of all eras of military history- not just the Civil War.
The Blackhawks, three of them, were loud now, their engines and rotors a roar that muffled the sound of the screams in the encampment. The helicopters were moving at full speed, and swept over the site in seconds. But not before dropping something. Five somethings.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Ghost Walker astral scout had been right. The army was little more than four dozen shades, marching on the encampment of Northern re-enactors. Colonel Kenslir and his stone soldiers had taken to the air immediately and were over the site in less than fifteen minutes. Ambulances would take slightly longer to get there, as would the many soldiers from nearby Camp Merrill that had been assigned to assist with the mop up.
There was no time to slow for a normal air drop. Every second, the shades were killing or wounding civilians. Kenslir knew this was
Another whistling sounded, right beside Tom's ear, and another hole appeared in the tent wall. It suddenly dawned on him that a musket ball had just flown past his head. He turned slowly on his folding cot. He saw two matching holes in the canvas. His tent had been shot. Twice.
The last bit of sleep faded from Tom's mind and he dove for the ground. The screaming outside was a mix of terror and pain- not jubilant reenactors gleefully reliving the past. These were real screams- of people really dying.
Tom belly-crawled across the grass floor of his tent and poked his head out. Men in Union uniforms were running around in utter chaos- many screaming, many pale with fear. But they were not alone.
Men in gray uniforms were present, thrusting with their muskets, bayonets stabbing at the men in blue. Others held rifles to their shoulders and fired- emitting bright, noiseless flashes. These silent, surreal volleys were followed by the Union reenactors suddenly sprawling to the ground, blood flying from their bodies.
This was real combat. And the Northerners were being butchered.
A scream sounded nearby, much louder than the others, due to its proximity. Tom glanced over and saw one of the men he knew from prior reenactments drop to his knees, a bayonet protruding from his chest.
The bayonet glimmered then faded away- not retracting, but simply vanishing into thin air. As the dead man, Jamie, fell onto his face, Tom could see his killer. A Confederate in full foot soldier's uniform, wearing a wide-brimmed, floppy hat.
The soldier turned toward Tom and he felt his blood run cold in his veins. It was not a human face that looked at him. It was the face of a skull, surrounded in an eerie sheath of mist-like gray. It opened its mouth and seemed to scream silently.
Then it was standing in front of him.
The ghostly figure had simply dissolved and swept forward, like smoke caught in a strong wind. It then resolidified right before Tom, seemingly human. It raised its musket high, ready to thrust down and spear Tom's head with its shimmering bayonet.
Tom closed his eyes, bracing for his immediate death.
Then he heard a new sound, over the screaming. The sound of helicopters.
Tom opened one eye, then the other, peeking up at the ghostly Confederate standing over him. It had turned its spectral head and was looking out, over the battlefield. Then it turned smoke-like again, and was swept away, moving toward the sound of the helicopters.
Tom stood slowly on legs that quivered and felt rubbery. He squinted and tried to look through the darkness. He saw blinking green and red lights coming in fast, only a hundred feet above the treetops to the southeast.
Helicopters- Army helicopters. UH-60 Blackhawks, Tom knew. He was, after all, a student of all eras of military history- not just the Civil War.
The Blackhawks, three of them, were loud now, their engines and rotors a roar that muffled the sound of the screams in the encampment. The helicopters were moving at full speed, and swept over the site in seconds. But not before dropping something. Five somethings.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Ghost Walker astral scout had been right. The army was little more than four dozen shades, marching on the encampment of Northern re-enactors. Colonel Kenslir and his stone soldiers had taken to the air immediately and were over the site in less than fifteen minutes. Ambulances would take slightly longer to get there, as would the many soldiers from nearby Camp Merrill that had been assigned to assist with the mop up.
There was no time to slow for a normal air drop. Every second, the shades were killing or wounding civilians. Kenslir knew this was
Similar Books
