Chapter 21: The Pieces Begin to Move
Axel stood at the center of the camp, map in one hand, a sharpened stick in the other. Dirt beneath his feet served as his canvas. Around him gathered Jason, Hank, Emily, Mary, the ten trainees, and the other capable adults.
"We have three days. Maybe less if they move faster," Axel said, stabbing the stick into the dirt. "We're outnumbered. Outgunned. But we're not outplayed. Not yet."
He pointed to the north side of the camp.
"First wall reinforcement here. Jason, take two men. Use the leftover scrap and metal sheets we found. I want it tight. No gaps."
Jason nodded and ran.
"Hank," Axel said next. "I want night eyes—someone in each tower, each hour, no breaks. No one sleeps until I say."
Hank didn't question. He vanished like smoke.
"Emily," Axel's voice softened just a fraction. "You know the people. Start moving the women and children to the central building. Quietly. No panic."
She hesitated but then nodded and moved.
"Mary," Axel turned to her. "Medical prep. If this turns bloody, I want you ready. Get the young nurses ready too. Be calm for them."
Mary's lips pressed together. "And you?"
"I won't die before you do, if that helps," he said with a smirk.
The trainees stood silently, unsure. Axel turned to them.
"You're not soldiers yet. But in three days, you'll either fight like hell or die like fools. You want to live? You listen. You breathe when I say breathe."
He walked away, heading to his tent.
Inside, alone, Axel knelt before a locked metal box. He opened it slowly.
Inside: a folded shirt with a faded military logo. Blood-stained dog tags. A black-and-white photo of a smiling couple.
His parents.
He stared at the photo, jaw tight.
"I'll kill them all," he whispered. "Every one of them."
He wasn't a hero. Never was.
But vengeance? That was holy.
And he'd sacrifice a hundred innocents if it meant getting one inch closer to the group that slaughtered his family.
.....
The walk back took hours.
Clay moved through the trees like a ghost. Quiet. Wary.
By dusk, he arrived.
The Sons of Ash had no permanent base. Just an ever-moving ring of fire, vehicles, and tents. Forty men and women camped around rusting trucks, shotguns slung over their backs, tattoos burned into their arms.
He entered the biggest tent.
At the center sat the leader: a man they called Redd.
He wasn't old. Maybe mid-thirties. Scarred face, black gloves, eyes like stone. The kind of man who laughed when others screamed.
Redd looked up from his whiskey.
"Well?" he asked.
Clay didn't flinch. "He said no."
Silence.
Redd tilted his head. "No?"
"Not only that," Clay said, tossing the map on the table. "He said if we're still in the forest in three days… he's coming for us."
The tent went dead quiet.
One of Redd's lieutenants laughed. "One man? What's he gonna do, throw rocks?"
But Redd didn't laugh.
He looked down at the map. Then back at Clay.
"What kind of setup?"
"Organized. Reinforced walls. Watchtowers. They have power. Food. Women. Even kids. But their leader…"
"What about him?"
Clay hesitated. "He's… different. He isn't scared. And he's smart. Dangerous smart."
Redd stood slowly.
"Then we burn him first."
He pointed at the lieutenants.
"Gather the men. I want my truck cleaned, my gun loaded, "
He looked at the forest, cold and calm.
"Looks like someone thinks they can play king. Let's go knock over his little kingdom."
—
Redd stood just beyond the treeline, his boots crunching over dried leaves and dirt. Behind him, two dozen men and women—armed to the teeth—laughed and jeered, their faces wild with confidence and bloodlust. Rusted trucks idled in the distance, engines humming low like beasts ready to charge.
Redd's coat billowed behind him as he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted:
"You can surrender!"
His voice echoed through the forest like a gunshot.
"This is your last chance, boy!"
Laughter erupted from the Sons of Ash. Guns were waved in the air, machetes tapped against armor. Some of them howled like wolves.
But atop the wall, above them all, stood Axel.
He said nothing.
The wind tugged at his black-silver hair, strands dancing against the cold air. His katana rested lazily on his shoulder. His eyes—those empty, haunted eyes—gazed down on Redd not with fear, not even anger…
But disappointment.
Like a god looking down on ants who dared challenge the sky.
He leaned slightly forward, arms relaxed, the silhouette of a monster carved out of calm shadow.
Redd grinned up at him. "What? No speech? No dramatic threat?"
Still, Axel said nothing.
Jason stood behind him on the wall, holding a scoped rifle. "You want me to shoot him?"
Axel didn't look away from Redd.
"No," he said softly.
"Not yet."
Down below, Redd raised a fist, then gave the command.
"Blow it."
A thunderous explosion rocked the eastern watchtower. Flames rose into the air—smoke billowing, fire crackling. The Sons of Ash howled with glee as the wall cracked under the pressure.
Axel didn't move.
He turned to the man beside him—Hank.
"Phase One," Axel said, voice colder than steel.
Hank nodded and ran.
Below the wall, hidden under layers of brush and tarp, dozens of handmade traps—tripwires, nail bombs, spikes—waited for the enemy.
Redd's army charged, screaming into the fire.
But Axel… Axel just watched.
Still silent.
Still god-like.
Still waiting.
And the ants ran into the fire of their own making.
—
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