ALL NOVEL Chapter 88: The war hospital
-------------------------
If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
-------------------------------
pov third person
The shelter was a vortex of despair, chaos, and humanity on the brink of collapse. As the Legion's war drums thundered closer, their cadence blended with the agonizing screams of the wounded. Lieutenant Marisa Holt bent over yet another soldier, her trembling hands trying to stanch arterial bleeding with the last of her dwindling supplies. Sweat dripped from her brow, but she couldn't spare the moment to wipe it away—every second lost meant another life fading into nothingness.
"More explosions to the north!" shouted a sentry as he burst into the shelter. "The NCR's defensive line is completely shattered. It's only a matter of minutes before they're on us."
"How many men can we move?" Marisa asked, not even looking up from her patient.
"Fewer than twenty who can still walk," Whitaker replied, his voice taut with frustration. "And more wounded keep pouring in."
"Then we make our stand here," Marisa muttered as she tied a makeshift bandage. She straightened and barked, "Whitaker, gather everyone who can fight and fortify the entrance! We're not letting those bastards in without a fight!"
Whitaker nodded grimly, rounding up the few men and women capable of holding a weapon. Some carried battered rifles, others makeshift blades or pistols with only a handful of rounds. The air was thick with resignation but also a desperate determination. No one wanted to die, but they wouldn't surrender easily either.
In one corner, the piercing screams of a young girl undergoing a leg amputation without anesthesia cut through the cacophony. The medic working on her was pale, his hands steady despite the crude tools at his disposal. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and despair.
"Lieutenant," another medic called from the back, "the infection's spreading faster than we can treat. We're out of antibiotics."
"I know," Marisa replied through clenched teeth. She knew she couldn't save them all. "Focus on those who can still fight."
Another deafening roar rattled the shelter, closer this time. The walls trembled, and flecks of concrete rained down as the Legion's tanks unleashed their fury. Victorious cries from the advancing Legionnaires echoed in the distance, a chilling prelude to the storm.
"They're here!" a lookout screamed. "Power armor advancing on us!"
Marisa inhaled sharply, forcing down the rising panic. She met Whitaker's gaze, who was already in position with his ragtag defenders. "Whitaker, make every bullet count. Aim for the visors and joints. If we fall here, we fall fighting."
The first shots rang out as Legionnaires came into view. Bullets sparked off their power armor, ricocheting harmlessly. One of the enemy tanks fired, and the shelter shook violently. Soldiers were thrown to the ground, their screams swallowed by the explosion.
Suddenly, a fuel tank near the shelter ignited, the blast collapsing part of the roof. Dust and debris filled the air, choking the already chaotic scene.
"Regroup!" Marisa coughed, searching through the haze for her remaining fighters. "We don't give up now!"
But deep down, she knew the truth. They were surrounded, out of supplies, facing an unrelenting enemy. The fate of the shelter was sealed, but Marisa refused to let the Legion claim an easy victory.
"For the NCR!" she cried, raising her pistol as the chaos around her reached its crescendo.
"True to Caesar!" the Legionnaires roared in unison, their voices like a thunderclap. Their automatic rifles barked mercilessly, cutting down the NCR defenders like leaves in a storm. There was no time for grief or fear—just the dull, lifeless thuds of bodies hitting the ground.
And yet, the Legion's assault was not one of mindless slaughter.
With terrifying precision, the Legionnaires discarded their rifles and drew their machetes, surging forward in a wave of muscle and steel. Their movements were brutal yet calculated, their war cries resonating with the grim promise of death. The clash of blades and the echo of boots against the concrete was the drumbeat of doom itself.
"Hold the line!" Marisa screamed, her voice raw with desperation. Her pistol trembled as she aimed at the nearest attacker—a towering man in scarred power armor. The bullet struck his visor but barely slowed him. With a guttural roar, he closed the distance.
The defenders fought valiantly but were swiftly overwhelmed. Legionnaires incapacitated their foes with clinical efficiency, breaking arms, disarming hands, and subduing the resistance with ruthless control. The machetes, symbols of death to the NCR, were used instead to disarm and incapacitate rather than kill outright.
"True to Caesar!" they bellowed again, dragging the surviving defenders into the center of the crumbling shelter. Preparations for the next grim act were already underway.
Marisa, gasping and dazed from a blow to the head, struggled to rise. A strong hand forced her to her knees. Towering above her was a Legionnaire, his armor gleaming even under the grime of battle. His gaze was cold and impassive.
"The dead serve no purpose to Caesar," he declared, his deep voice cutting through the oppressive silence. "But the living… they will build his glory."
Marisa spat at his feet, her defiance burning bright even in defeat. "I'll never serve your damned Caesar," she hissed, glaring up at him.
The Legionnaire's expression remained unreadable. He raised a hand, and a slaver stepped forward with a metallic collar in hand. Marisa's heart sank as she recognized the device—a slave collar.
"You have no choice," the Legionnaire said calmly as the collar clicked shut around her neck. The sound was louder in her mind than any explosion she'd heard.
Her fight was over, but her nightmare had just begun.
Around her, the surviving NCR soldiers were subjected to the same grim process. Some screamed, begging for mercy, while others, resigned to their fate, offered no resistance. The Legionnaires worked with cold efficiency, dividing the prisoners into groups: the wounded who could still walk were marked as "useful," while the gravely injured were sent aside, their fate uncertain.
"This one's a medic, and the others seem to have similar skills. Take them to our wounded—they'll treat them," commanded a voice, firm and commanding, belonging to a man whose mere presence dominated the battlefield. His armor was far more advanced and pristine than that of the other Legionnaires, adorned with reinforced plates and integrated devices that hinted at technological superiority. The crimson insignia of Caesar gleamed prominently on his chest, a blazing mark of authority.
The Legionnaires around him reacted instantly, bowing their heads slightly in respect. One of them approached Marisa Holt, yanking her roughly to her feet and dragging her toward a separate group of captives. Her eyes stayed fixed on the man who had given the order, scrutinizing every detail. This is no ordinary Legionnaire, she thought. His armor was unlike anything she had seen before, its enhancements suggesting a rank and purpose beyond the battlefield.
Marisa struggled, but the slave collar delivered a sharp jolt, enough to make her relent. "What the hell do you want from us?" she demanded, her voice seething with barely contained fury.
The armored man regarded her with calm indifference, as though her defiance was beneath his notice. He stepped toward her with deliberate precision, each movement exuding purpose. "Your skills are valuable," he said in a voice deep and measured. "Your hands will save lives today, whether you wish it or not. Caesar does not waste resources, and that includes prisoners with useful talents."
The medics, including Marisa, were escorted under strict guard to the Legion's field hospital. The march was silent except for the crunch of Legionnaire boots and the occasional bark from a slaver. Each captive braced themselves for what they expected to be a grim, makeshift facility filled with chaos and suffering.
What they found, however, left them stunned.
The Legion's field hospital was situated at a safe distance from the front lines, surrounded by fortified defenses and constant patrols. Inside, the medics were greeted with an unexpected sight. This was no crude tent of wooden cots and tattered tarps. It was a surprisingly modern, clean, and organized facility. The walls of the main tents were reinforced with durable materials, and the floors were lined with metal panels to keep dirt at bay. A soft white light bathed the area, powered by steadily humming generators.
This is not what I expected, Marisa thought, her eyes scanning the surroundings with a mix of disbelief and suspicion.
What caught her attention most, however, was the abundance of medical equipment. Machines she recognized immediately—ventilators, defibrillators, even portable X-ray units—lined the space. Shelves stocked with surgical tools and medications were meticulously arranged along the walls. Legion medics in pristine tunics worked alongside enslaved medical personnel, following protocols that far exceeded the NCR's capabilities in its forward outposts.
"What… what is this?" one NCR medic whispered behind Marisa, unable to hide his astonishment.
The field hospital stood in stark contrast to the brutality Marisa had come to associate with the Legion. NCR wounded lay on cots alongside Legion soldiers, their lives preserved by Legion medics who worked with unerring precision. It seemed less an act of compassion and more a calculated challenge to logic itself.
"This is the Legion's field hospital," the man in sophisticated armor said, his voice as firm and authoritative as before. "Our warriors are valuable, and Caesar does not squander the brave who serve his cause."
Marisa glared at him, her distrust palpable. "Where did you get all this?" she asked, gesturing to the equipment. "This isn't something the Legion typically has."
The man's lips curled into a faint smile beneath his helmet, a flicker of pride in his otherwise detached demeanor. "The Legion takes what it needs. Some of these machines were acquired from NCR facilities; others were taken from tribes and settlements now under Caesar's dominion. Including from the very tribe that produced the legate Gaius."
The name hit Marisa like a sudden jolt. She furrowed her brow, trying to process the revelation. Gaius… a legate? She had only ever heard of two: Malpais, whose campaign at Hoover Dam had failed spectacularly, and Lanius, the butcher carving a path of destruction in the north. This name was new—and evidently significant.
"Gaius?" she echoed, almost reflexively. "Never heard of him. Another butcher like Lanius?"
The Legionnaire tilted his head slightly, his tone tinged with reverence. "The legate Gaius is not merely a commander," he began, his voice carrying a weight that commanded attention. "He is Caesar's will incarnate. His mind is sharper than any blade, his strategy as relentless as a river carving through stone. Unlike Lanius, whose brutality terrorizes, or Malpais, whose cunning faltered at Hoover Dam, Gaius thinks like your kind—like the people of the Bear. He knows how to turn your strengths into his tools."
Marisa's jaw clenched as the words pierced her pride. Thinks like us… The stories of the Legion often depicted their leaders as savage warlords incapable of understanding the NCR's advanced tactics. But this Gaius, as described, seemed an entirely different kind of threat.
"It is for these reasons," the Legionnaire continued, "that we have defeated you time and again, degenerates. Your strengths become our weapons; your technology, our tools. Where you see chaos, Gaius sees order. And where you find hope, he turns it into submission."
Marisa stared him down, her jaw tight with restrained fury. "Degenerates? Is that how you justify enslaving and slaughtering innocent civilians?" Her voice was defiant, though a hint of desperation bled through.
The Legionnaire's expression didn't waver. "Innocence has no place in war, medic. Caesar understands this, and Gaius executes it with precision. You call it barbarity; we call it purpose. Every man, every woman, every resource of the NCR is an instrument to build Caesar's glory."
"Glory?" Marisa spat the word like venom. "There's no glory in forcing others to serve. No honor in destroying lives for an empire built on chains."
The Legionnaire remained unfazed. "That's because you do not understand, medic. But you will. Soon, you will see that serving Caesar is not a condemnation but an opportunity. Gaius sees beyond the immediate. He doesn't just crush you, as Lanius would. He integrates you, molds you, and makes you something greater. Something useful."
Marisa's hands trembled, not from fear but from a boiling mixture of rage and helplessness. The Legionnaire's words were a mockery of everything she believed in—but there was also an unsettling truth to them. This Gaius was no simple butcher; he was a strategist who saw domination as a tool for assimilation, a far more insidious threat than brute force.
"Start working," the Legionnaire ordered with a nod toward the rows of injured soldiers. "Care for your own. Save their lives. Because every life you save here will become another piece on Gaius's board. A piece that serves Caesar, whether you like it or not."
-------------------------------
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.