Wall of Corpses (1)
It was dawn. At the end of the long corridor leading from inside Nova to the treatment area, everything was soaked red. Blood and water mingled, leaving a long trail dragged down the middle of the hallway. The footprints stamped on the floor were mostly deep on one side only, with chunks of dragged flesh and black sludge staining the gaps like blotches.
At the corridor's end, in El's recovery area, all those trails converged. A demon with limbs half-melted off lay sprawled on a stretcher, while another with a gutted belly wheezed out barely coherent words of "it's clogged." From somewhere, an arm bloated white from prolonged submersion protruded. Faintly acrid holy water stench pierced the nose before the dried blood smell could.
El walked slowly through them. If she stopped, that was the end here. The moment her hands pulled away, a "living corpse" became a "fully dead one."
One demon's chest cavity gaped wide. Rotten water sloshed between the ribs, and the heart's spot looked like an empty hole. El steadied her breath, cupping the chest with both hands. Dull red light spread from her fingertips. Blood and rotten water were yanked out in clumps, then forcibly shoved back into the wound. The splayed flesh meshed not by "suturing" but by "sticking." Shattered bones grated as they slotted back into place. The demon's body convulsed.
Breath sucked in once, deeply.
"...Guh—hack!"
Its eyes finally rolled back into focus. The demon heaved for a long while before managing to open its mouth.
"Me... tomorrow too... go out...?"
El's hands paused briefly. Head bowed, she looked down at the demon's face. Its eyes shook without focus, lips cracked white. El swallowed once, then answered honestly.
"Yes."
"Tomorrow if not... day after."
The demon let out a sound like a chuckle or a gasp. Blood and water seeped from its mouth again. El wiped it roughly with cloth and pulled her hands away.
El wasn't saving them—she was just shoving death one step aside, her hands moving ceaselessly. She looked down at her own hands. Where the red light had faded, blood, black sludge, and faint holy water stains mingled and clung. No time to wash. Wipe it, and it smeared back on soon enough.
Wheels scraped from behind. Nas, peering into worn documents, muttered.
"Ones back alive on day two..."
"Half-corpse..."
Bones misaligned. An arm missing. Body swollen white and puffy from water. Joints creaking every move after hasty attachment. Navriel quietly added notes beside him. Her eyes were already elsewhere, on the battle map.
El gazed once more at her hands crusted with dried blood and water. Here, a body that had shattered once endured longer than an intact one. She convinced herself of that and stepped to the next stretcher.
Morning. In the command room center, new red marks dotted the map. Yesterday, waterways, prayer lines, and encirclement nets were drawn thick. Blue lines for the flood's flow, golden dots for heavenly prayer lines, our retreat paths thinly revised between them.
But today, overlaid marks: small Xs. Thick red blobs.
"Corpse hills."
Nas tapped the board's edge with a finger.
"Ground front shift... a line or two."
"But corpse hills... thirteen spots."
Red blobs studded the battlefield center on the map. Inside the encirclement. Between waterways, amid deep pools. Navriel continued.
"By prayer lines, heaven didn't occupy deeper on day two either."
"Just poured water deeper."
I looked down at the map. Amid blue lines and golden dots, red stains marked where yesterday's fallen lay.
"From today."
I tapped the red blobs one by one.
"Retreat line's not dirt—corpses."
"The fallen hold the front."
Quiet breaths swept the room.
"Ballrag."
His gaze shifted from map to my eyes.
"Pin corpse hills firm."
"When they step, our side to their feet."
Ballrag exhaled shortly.
"...Understood."
I re-marked corpse hills at the gate front and flanks.
"These crumble, shield pushes."
"Shield pushes, gate pushes."
Then eyes aside. Astamar stood reeking ash and plague, decayed flower spores on hands.
"Astamar."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Living ones to El."
"Dead to your fields."
"Wall-worthy first."
Astamar's lip curled faintly.
"Just what I sought."
"Today, bone and flesh for foundation over dirt."
The battlefield: first fallen pave for later ones. I summed it, lifting my finger from the map.
Leaving command, Nova's inner passages reeked blood again. Stretchers rolled to recovery; opposite, dragged out. Corpses. From today, not "leftovers"—material.
Low demons moved in lines. One side carted barely breathing to El; other dragged lifeless out. Handles slipped—not blood, water. Holy water and blood mix. White-bloated shell-flesh scraped floor. Dragging closer than battlefield din. Someone dry-heaved. Someone cursed. Line didn't stop. Stop, and front crumbles.
Gate front. Piles built atop already pinned-hard ground. I jabbed stacking spots.
"Gate center low."
"Flanks long."
"No gaps along waterways."
Haulers nodded. Corpses thrown, stacked, foot-stomped firm. Not yet "wall." But wall material prepped here today. I eyed gate's outer mist.
"Now."
"See where that water flows."
Water odd since dawn. Navriel traced battlefield flow, hand on map.
"Today's depth... uneven."
Yesterday's waist-fixed water varied: calf-deep some zones, chest-high others, erratic.
Far field. Through mist, a demon staggered, yelled.
"Hey, floor here...!"
Before words ended, spot sank. Waist water surged chest, then neck. Demon instinctively inhaled—gulped water. Bone-freezing holy chill flooded lungs. He stomped footing, but unseen below clamped torso tight.
"......Grrk!"
Pressure. Deep-sea crush. Ribs folded inward like fleeing. Organs pulped, sensation transmitted in water. Crush sounds from body in depths. Angel shadow passed above.
Holy flood. Blue-white water, angels light as air-walking. They turned in depths, prayer shields up, whipped high-pressure jets. One angel swung hand. Narrow water spear lanced. Holy and protection fused: thin, rigid blade. It grazed demon neck underwater. No blood—dark water, black foam burst. Head and body separated, sank fast to depths. Deeper, pressure thickened. Angels' sanctuary: under dazzling shields, deep weight backed spears. Demons' grave. Water drew lines by depth.
Flank corpse hill tilted toward flood. Currents gnawed. Piles slid, flesh tore, bones clashed protruding.
"Ballrag."
From gate top, I pointed.
Wall-extended ground under his power. Each step, deep earth rumbled heavy. At tilting mound, he glanced back at wall, stomped hard.
"Died there."
"Stand there."
Voice sank deep into ground. Earth quaked. Crumbling corpses yanked down at once. Rotting flesh, snapped bones ground each other, solidified clump. Half-submerged mound. Holy waves overflowed. Flesh whitened cleaner, black plague bubbles swelled between. Ballrag gritted teeth. Pin this, endure day. But he saw: what made the ground. Comrades, battlefield toll. Eyes shut brief, opened. Battlefields offer few choices. Deeper force underfoot. Mound stilled, new "ground" before gate. From today, that ground becomes wall.